


Tropes - Ichabbie

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 70,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Collection of one-shots based on fanfiction tropes or cliches. Ratings vary by chapter.





	1. Only One Bed

It was the most basic hotel – no, _motel_ – room Abbie had ever seen. Contents: One bed, queen sized, one bureau with a TV on top, one tiny desk with a wood and vinyl armchair, one nightstand (with the TV remote bolted on), one lamp. The sink was in a nook outside of the disappointing bathroom. Everything seemed to be a dank shade of yellow. It was also 100 miles from Sleepy Hollow, 1:30 in the morning, and the only vacancy they'd seen.

Of course, the only available rooms were singles. They were given "the good one."

"I shall sleep on the floor," Crane had declared.

Abbie sighed. "No. This floor is gross and only God knows what has been on it," she said, looking down at the matted carpet. _I don't even know what color this is supposed to be._ "Look. I'm tired. You're tired. There's no reason why we both can't sleep in the bed," she says, trying to sound convincing when there is actually one very good reason why they shouldn't share a bed. Too much temptation. She's so deep in denial her chin is wet and she can barely see the pyramids anymore.

She's fairly certain Crane is standing in the same river, based on some of the things he's muttered in his sleep the few times he has dozed off in the archives while doing late night research. He tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he's been frustratingly difficult to read in this particular area. He's always been very tactile. He's never had any concept of personal space with her. He's always launching into soliloquies about their bond as Witnesses and how much they mean to one another. So it's a little difficult for Abbie to tell if his feelings for her have developed into something more in the years since Katrina has died. The way hers have for him. The only clue she has are the mutterings in his sleep, when he calls her name in a breathy rumble followed by a moan that makes her torn between leaving the room and jumping him.

"Of course," Crane answers. "We can certainly manage sleeping beside one another for one night."

"Okay then," Abbie says, heading to the bathroom, avoiding his cerulean gaze. A few minutes later, she emerges with her hair braided, bra in her hand.

Crane's eyes flick nervously from the lingerie dangling from her hand to her chest before quickly looking away. He has removed his boots, turned back the covers, and is standing stiffly beside the bed, waiting. They stand and regard one another for a long moment. Finally, Abbie sits and removes her boots and socks. Then, she sighs and climbs into the bed. She is happy to discover the sheets feel and smell clean.

"Um… I'll just…" Crane quietly says, and heads to the bathroom. When he emerges a moment later, he sees his partner squirming under the covers, her hands hidden. "Miss Mills?" he asks, stepping cautiously forward. "Are you well?"

"Yep, fine," she answers, her hand darting out from beneath the covers, her jeans clutched in it. "Just couldn't get comfortable with these on. The seam was digging into my hip," she says, tossing the jeans on top of her jacket.

"Oh, dear…" he mutters.

"I still have my underwear on, Crane," she says, sounding braver than she actually feels. She knows she's just made the situation more dangerous for both of them, but if she's going to stand a chance of sleeping at all, she needs to be comfortable. She sighs heavily and flops onto her side, close to the edge, facing away from him.

He looks down at his clothes, not particularly wanting to sleep in them either. _I have done so before, but I have never liked it. I shall just keep close to the edge as the Lieutenant has done and... bind my hands to my sides._

Abbie hears his sigh followed by the soft shuffling noises of her partner undressing. She feels the bed shift and dip as he slips between the sheets.

"Good night, Miss Mills," he quietly says.

"Good night, Crane," she answers, adjusting slightly. She can feel the warmth of him behind her, wondering how close he is to the edge of the bed. She tentatively reaches a hand behind her, finds nothing, and figures he must be clinging to the edge like a spider monkey. "You don't have to endanger yourself, you know."

"Well, I rather think it is a part of our role as Witnesses, Lieutenant," he answers, furrowing his brow. "The creature tonight was—"

"I was talking about sleeping so close to the edge of the bed," she interrupts, chuckling into her pillow.

"Oh." He shuffles a few inches closer.

Abbie quietly, shakily exhales, suddenly anxious. _If this were a king sized bed, it would be so much easier to just pretend he isn't there and fall asleep._ She is dead tired, but the knowledge that Crane is right behind her, in some state of undress, is making it difficult for her to relax into sleep. She can _sense_ his solid, warm presence behind her. She sighs and flips over, trying in vain to get comfortable. She opens her eyes and sees him lying on his back like a corpse, hands clasped on his chest, staring at the ceiling. She quickly closes her eyes when he turns his head to look at her, praying he didn't notice her watching him.

The bed jostles as he shifts his position. Minutes pass. A large, warm hand hesitantly lands on her thigh, just above her knee. "Lieutenant…" he softly rumbles, fingers gently caressing the soft skin of her leg.

She softly gasps, then in one fluid motion, scoots closer, places her hand over his, and moves it higher till it lands on her hip. Her hand touches his bare chest, fingers cool against his warm – hot – skin.

Finally, she opens her eyes and looks up at him. "Ichabod."

His whispered name on her lips is all the permission he needs. Barely moving his head, he claims her lips, sudden and hungry. She squeaks in surprise at the raw passion he pours into the kiss, her fingers curling into his chest hair as his dig into her hip, pulling her closer still.

"Abbie," Ichabod tears his lips away to speak her name, his voice raspy and thick. His eyes search hers in the dim, yellow light filtering in from the parking lot through the spaces between the curtains, looking for any sign of reluctance or hesitation. Finding none, he dives in again, his tongue insistent against hers.

Abbie moans into his mouth and he moves his hand to cup her backside. "What...?" he sputters, expecting his fingers to be touching fabric. They find only skin. "I thought you said...?"

She laughs. "It's a thong," she says, not sure if he'll understand but not really caring.

He gropes around, still kissing her, until his fingers locate the scant material. "I must see this," he decides, pulling away to look at her with dark, dazed eyes. "I know to what you are referring, but I wish to – _need_ to see..." he says, flinging the blankets away and lifts up, letting his eyes travel her body, taking in the way her breasts push against the cotton of her t-shirt, its hem bunched up at her waist revealing a strip of tantalizing skin, and finally, they land on her panties. They are purple and enticingly scant. He stretches his neck to see the back view, then gently turns her onto her stomach while she laughs at him. "Good gracious," he gasps, his fingers flexing and twitching just above her skin.

"You memorizing it, or what—ah!" she yelps as he lightly bites her cheek, his long hair tickling where it brushes her. Laughing, she rolls over onto her back and looks up at him.

"You are delectable," he declares, his low baritone voice feeling like a caress on her skin.

Abbie indulges herself, looking at as much as him as she can. He is on his side, but she can still discern the slender, corded muscles of his arms and chest, his flat stomach and slender waist, and the intriguing bulge in his grey boxer briefs (one of his two concessions to modern attire, the other being socks). "You're pretty delectable yourself," she replies, pulling him down over her.

"Mmm," Ichabod hums, kissing her again. "These lips have tormented me for far too long," he murmurs, sucking her lower lip into his mouth.

"Ah," she gasps, tilting her chin up a little as she slides her hands around his torso. She intentionally arches up against him, pressing her thigh against his manhood.

He hisses between his teeth at the contact. "Oh, Abbie," he groans. "Oh!" he exclaims in surprise as one of her small, sneaky hands closes around his length.

She strokes and squeezes him through the material of his shorts while his hands work their way under her shirt, kissing almost frantically the entire time.

"You have no idea how..." Abbie gasps as his hand closes over her breast, "how long I've wanted..."

Ichabod lifts his head. "You have?" he asks, a little breathless. "For I have dreamt of this very thing for... oh, it feels like forever," he says, kissing her.

She suddenly laughs. "We're a couple of assholes..." she says, still laughing as he kisses his way down her neck. "Pining like idiots for..."

"Years?" he suggests.

"Years," she confirms, "only to find out..." she pauses as he impatiently tugs at her t-shirt. She whips it over her head. "Only to find out we both—oh..." she trails off as he closes his lips over one of her nipples.

Her hand stills on him, momentarily distracted. Then, she regroups, moves her hand up to the waistband of his underwear, and sneaks her hand inside.

"Oh," he grunts as her fingers caress his length, familiarizing themselves with all of him. He retaliates by slipping his hand into her panties, his long fingers sliding against her folds, already wet with desire for him.

"Off..." she gasps, pushing at his boxer briefs, clinging to the last vestiges of her sanity. His long, dextrous fingers feel as good as she has imagined they would, and she already feels close to her peak. _No... they're better than I imagined._

"Yes," he agrees, helping to remove his underwear, then hers. He settles over her, her firm thighs invitingly cradling his hips. "Wait," he says. "Should we not take... precautions? I mean... as much as I would—"

Abbie leans up and kisses him, gently silencing him. "I'm not going to get pregnant," she says. "Modern medicine," she adds, kissing him again. "I'll explain later."

"Ah. Very well," Ichabod says, kissing her in response. The kiss grows deeper, hungrier, and soon neither of them can wait any longer.

She reaches down and takes his impressive length into her hand, stroking him a few times as she slides the tip against her, pleasuring them both. He groans and she moves him into place.

He plunges his hips down and forward, smoothly entering her. "Abbie..." he breathes her name. "Oh, my Abigail..."

"Ichabod," she answers, pushing her hips upward, encouraging him to move.

He does. She cries out, throwing her head back, clutching his shoulders.

"Abbie," he grunts, thrusting with long, measured strokes, his one hand moving to close over her breast where he toys with her nipple with his thumb.

She arches beneath him and tugs on his shoulders until he bends down to kiss her. He continues to move, his strokes smooth and sure, while they kiss, tongues sweeping and darting. She hitches her knees higher at his sides, wanting this closeness with him, needing it the same way she needs air. She drags her nails across his scalp, the long strands of his hair tangling between her fingers.

"Oh," he grunts, moving to kiss her neck.

"Yes," she gasps in reply, her small hands exploring the slender, toned muscles of his chest and back. "More..."

He immediately thrusts harder and she cries out, a sound of joyous surprise. She had expected him to hesitate, or even repeat her request as a question. She had not expected him to have a spare fuel tank in that skinny body of his.

"Oh, Abbie... my love... I... wanted... so long..." Words and half-finished phrases start falling from lips that never leave her skin. Her neck, her lips, her cheek, her ear; he trails kisses wherever he can reach, murmuring endearments as he brings her higher and higher until she digs her nails in and cries out his name.

"Oh, God, I love you so much..." the whispered confession slips out before Abbie can stop it, and she realizes she doesn't _want_ to stop it.

Ichabod was on the brink already. He was driven there by her unraveling beneath him, but her words push him over the edge. He plunges deeply and stills, his entire body tensing up for just a few moments as he floods into her. He carefully collapses over her, rendered momentarily weak but still mindful of the difference in their sizes. "I love you, too, Abbie," he breathes against her hair.

She wraps her arms around his torso, hugging him tightly. Then, he rolls off of her, pulling her with and tucking her against his side. "Wow... I wasn't expecting that," she says after a short time.

He lifts his head and looks down at her, eyebrow raised. "The actual event or my demeanor?" he asks.

She laughs. "Well, both of those were pretty unexpected, too. I guess I was expecting you to be a little more... reserved."

He squeezes her rear. "Oh, Miss Mills, how I will enjoy surpassing your expectations," he rumbles, enticingly running his large hand over her skin.

Abbie feels a wave of delicious heat course through her body. _Damn._

Ichabod kisses her. "You have yet to explain your previous statement," he reminds her.

"Well, stop distracting me," she says. She pauses, thinking. "Hmm. How can I say this without sounding weird?" she sighs.

"After all we've been through, you honestly expect me to find anything you say to be 'weird', Lieutenant?" he asks.

"Good point," she answers. "I just mean... well, we're the Witnesses to the apocalypse. I guess I was... I don't know... expecting God to smite us for, oh, abusing our bond by fornicating." He chuckles and she adds, "Either that, or I was expecting the heavens to have opened up and all the angelic hosts start singing while we made the beast with two backs bathed in heavenly light. Or something."

Ichabod pauses thoughtfully before he deadpans, "Was it _not_ like that for you then?"

Abbie laughs loudly, surprised by his reply, and lightly slaps his chest. He captures her hand and kisses it. "I don't know if I would go so far as to say I was having visions, but it was definitely the best sex I've had in... oh, ever," she says. She kisses his chest, over the large scar on his pectoral muscle. "I guess it's different when you love the person."

He smiles and kisses her forehead.

"I want you to know I wasn't just saying that because of... you know, post-orgasmic bliss... I really meant it. I _do_ love you, Ichabod," she says, lifting her head to look up at him.

"I know you do, Abbie. I meant every word I said as well. I love you," he replies, cupping her chin to kiss her lips. "I have for some time now." He kisses her again, longer. "And I will continue to do so for as long as I draw breath." He pulls her into a full embrace, hauling her on top of him as he kisses her thoroughly, lovingly.

"Oh," she gasps, feeling his length against her thigh, ready for another round. "Damn, man," she softly exclaims, the soft prickle of his beard on her neck contrasting nicely with the slick wetness of his tongue.

Ichabod moves back to her lips, kissing her deeply as his hands begin to roam again, and Abbie gets the distinct impression that neither of them will be getting as much sleep as they had anticipated that night.


	2. Disabled Vehicle AU

The deer appeared out of nowhere, leaping with impossible grace and speed from the forest flanking the highway. Neither it nor Crane was fast enough to avoid one another.

"Bloody…!" he exclaims, futilely slamming on the brakes and turning the wheel. He collided with the deer, putting a sizable dent in the front of his small car, which stops sideways on the road.

As he assesses himself for damage, he sees the deer stagger to its feet, then hobble into the forest. He pops on his hazards, reaches for his cell phone with a trembling hand, and is trying to decide if he should call the police or a tow truck when he hears the blip of a police car pull up behind him.

He puts his phone in his pocket, opens his window, and waits, knowing better than to exit his vehicle and approach a police car.

"Oh," he groans, noticing his coffee has spilled, soaking into his bag of donut holes and the car's upholstery.

"You all right in there?" a female voice asks, and Crane looks up from his ruined breakfast into the face of the most beautiful police officer he has ever seen.

Scratch that.

The most beautiful _woman_ he has ever seen.

"Y-yes, I think so," he stammers. "Just a little shaken up. I fear my breakfast has suffered the worst of it," he adds, glancing over at the soggy bag on the seat.

"I am Lieutenant Abigail Mills with the Westchester County Sheriff's Department," she says, following standard procedure. "Are you able to step out of the vehicle, sir?"

She stands back as he unfolds himself from the car, towering a full foot over the pretty police officer. "I seem to be in working order," he says, experimentally bending his knees.

She looks up at him. _You think he'd have a car into which he actually fits._ "I saw the deer," she says. She talks into a radio for a minute or two, then returns her attention to him. "You need to be careful on these roads this time of year. They're around a lot in the early mornings."

"Yes, the evenings, too. Diurnal creatures, deer," he comments, walking with her to assess the damage to his car.

She nods once. "May I ask what you are doing out here at this hour?" she asks. It's just before 6 a.m., and they are miles outside of town.

"I live out this way," he explains, pointing in the direction of his cabin. "I was feeling rather peckish, and I have a bit of a weakness for donut holes, unfortunately. I like them fresh."

"You get up early for donut holes?" she asks, looking up from the notepad on which she's writing.

"I am always up this early, Lieutenant Mills," he answers.

Her lips twitch in a slight smile at the way he pronounces it "leftenant". Then, it hits her. "You're the new historian they hired to run the museum." She had recently heard they brought over "some British guy who is an expert in American History" as the new curator.

He smiles, bowing slightly. "Ichabod Crane, madam," he says. "I am honored to make your acquaintance."

"You live out here?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. She finds herself very interested in this man. Almost too much so.

"Ah, yes, well… it's an odd situation. I have an uncle who moved here many years ago… he recently passed away, and he was good-hearted enough to bequeath me his cabin. It was rather serendipitous, actually. He knew I was preparing to move here, and had said I could use the place. He must have had the paperwork changed just before the accident," he explains.

"Hmm," Abbie says, nodding once. "Interesting. Your uncle wouldn't be August Corbin, by any chance, would he?"

"How did you…? Yes, of course you would know. Small town. And you are a police officer, so you would know about the accident," Crane reasons.

"He was a good man," she says with a nod. "Never realized he was British."

"He was a child when his family moved here. His accent disappeared over time." He smiles down at her, noting her large, brown eyes and full lips. Even devoid of makeup, her face is devastatingly beautiful.

"Of course," she answers, looking up at him. She can't help but return his smile. His soft, intelligent blue eyes linger on her, and suddenly everything is heightened. She feels slightly warmer despite the crisp autumn air. His fingers twitch at his side, and the motion catches her eye. His hands are large, fingers long and graceful. His right hand comes up to unconsciously stroke his beard, and she watches it with hypnotic interest, her dirty imagination pounding at the door of her consciousness.

He clears his throat. "Lieut—"

The tow truck arrives, breaking the tension that had quickly built between them.

"Oh," Abbie softly exclaims, then walks towards the wrecker. "Hey, Jerry," she greets.

A burly, older man emerges from the truck, quickly assesses the situation, and gets to work.

All business again, she asks, "Deer went into the woods?"

"Yes. I do not know how badly hurt he was," Crane answers. "He was quite large. A hunter's dream, I would say."

She nods. "I guess we'll let nature do her thing," she says with a slight shrug. "Doubtful he'll return to the road to menace any more poor, unsuspecting Toyota Yarises."

"Indeed," he agrees.

"Mr. Crane, we're all set," Jerry calls.

"Thank you, my good man," he replies, then looks back at Abbie. He clears his throat again, trying to decide if it would be inappropriate to ask her out. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Do stop in at the museum in the near future. I promise you will have free admission any time."

"I might just do that," she says, handing him her card. "Have a good day, Dr. Crane," she says, smiling, knowing he has his doctoral degree. She finds it a very telling aspect of his personality that he did not correct Jerry when he called him "Mister". _He's not pretentious._ "Well, try to, anyway." She touches his arm, then retreats towards her cruiser.

He tries not to watch her walk away, but his traitorous eyes are glued to her enticingly feminine curves beneath the unflattering police uniform. He looks down at the card and reads her name. _Lt. Abigail Mills_. Idly, he flips the card over with his fingers. She's written another number on the back, with the words _My shift is over at 1:00_ beneath it. He looks up, staring straight ahead as his heart thumps in his chest. This time, he knows it's not adrenaline from the accident that's causing the racing beat. He looks over at the police car, and she blips the siren once at him.

He smiles, then strolls towards the tow truck.

Suddenly, the day doesn't seem so bad after all.


	3. Truth Spell

"I must say the repairs to my old coat are quite acceptable," Crane says, sweeping the beam of his flashlight from side to side in the underground tunnel. "It is nice to be able to keep things in both pockets again. This fog is... unusual," he continues, switching topic without warning. "One does not often see fog underground. And so low. I can see over it, in fact..."

"Well, you're lucky," comes a voice a foot below and a bit to the left of his own. "I can't see a thing." Abbie coughs once, swatting ineffectively at the fog. "Lucky," she mutters after a moment. "All you are is lucky."

"Excuse me?" he asks, perplexed.

"Excuse you, indeed, Mr. Crane," she snaps. "God, would it kill you to actually say 'Thank you' for something?" She stops walking, blinking in confusion. _Where did that come from?_

"Miss Mills?" He peers down through the fog at her.

"I got your coat fixed, and the best you can do is 'I find this acceptable'? Hell, after _all_ I've done for you over the years... I don't think you've thanked me for anything other than wiping freaking _coffee foam_ off of your stupid mustache!" She stops again, still bewildered but unable to stop, her voice rising. "I broke you out of Tarrytown, kept you from going _back_ there, gave you a place to live – rent free! – and paid all your bills for almost two years! Heck, I _still_ help you with some of them because your consultant pay is so damn low..."

"Abbie, I—"

"I put up with your damned _wife_ with her 'I believe there is still good in him'," here she imitates Katrina's accent and whispered timbre, "and then, _then_ , when she _turned against us,_ did I say 'I told you so'? No. When she died, when they _both_ died, I held your hand, rubbed your back, wiped your tears, and was the good, supportive friend until you were all better." She stops again, breathing heavily, having built up a full head of steam. "You may be from the Golden Era of White Male Entitlement, but that doesn't mean you can't show gratitude to someone who has helped you! Just because you may _feel_ you are owed everything doesn't make it so!"

She blinks up at him, tears in her eyes as she unwittingly unloads over three years of pent-up frustration onto her best friend and partner. _What did I just do?_

Crane says nothing, stunned into silence.

"Miss Mills—"

"Crane, I—"

They both speak simultaneously.

"You are right," Crane finally speaks. "I— oh, sod this," he bends down on one knee to bring his face to her level, wishing to afford her at least _that_ courtesy. "I must offer my most heartfelt apologies. I fear I have been remiss in my gratitude for all that you have done for me," he says. He coughs once, blinking as the fog continues to swirl around them. He ineffectively waves his hand between them, trying to clear it. He takes a deep breath and continues. "I… have neglected to thank you because I was afraid if I did, if I… expressed how much it meant that you would do all these things for me… I would say more than I intended."

"What are you talking about?" Abbie asks, confused.

Crane shakes his head and presses his lips together, battling an impulse that has suddenly become overwhelming. "Perhaps if you would step out from behind the stone wall you've constructed around yourself to keep people from getting close to you, you would see," he blurts. "Oh. I..." he stammers, his face a mask of confusion as she raises an eyebrow at him.

"No. Out with it. Tell me all about this _wall_ from the saddle of your _high horse,_ " she snaps.

Crane straightens his back and squares his shoulders, but does not stand. He opens his mouth, closes it, furrows his brows, then slowly, cautiously, takes her hand in his. "You are absolutely everything to me, Abbie." The words begin to spill out like water from a burst dam. "I keep my personal feelings – my most heartfelt gratitude, my deep appreciation for all you have done and continue to do for me – bottled up because I fear if I say these things, I won't be able to stop and will wind up telling you how I _truly_ feel. How I—" His mouth snaps closed and he squeezes his eyes shut. _Stop talking, Crane. You have lost control of your mouth and you must stop now._ "You would almost certainly reject me, and I would rather keep my feelings hidden than have them crushed."

He cautiously opens his eyes again. They stare at one another, bewildered, each dealing with a swirl of emotions brought on by these surprise confessions.

When Abbie doesn't reply to his words, Crane slowly stands, but does not release her hand. He takes some deep breaths, and suddenly, the impulse to bare his soul to his partner fades away, returning to the previous dull ache of longing to which he has grown accustomed. "What just happened?"

"You basically just told me you love me," Abbie says, her voice tight. "And... I'm trying to... _stop_ myself... from telling you the same thing." She curses under her breath. "That's why I put up with all your crap... all the 'I'm smarter than everybody' and 'I knew everyone in the Revolutionary War' and 'I can speak 46 languages' and..."

"Do not forget 'I am an ungrateful lout'," he supplies.

Abbie huffs a short laugh. Then, something else dawns on her. She shakes her head, attempting to clear it. "Crane..." she says, waving at the fog again, "what was the inscription on the doors to this tunnel?"

"I believe it said 'Ephesians 4:25," he answers. "Oh, dear... 'Therefore, having put away falsehood, let each one of you speak—"

"—the truth with his neighbor, for we are members one of another.'" Abbie finishes the verse.

"Indeed," Crane nods. "This fog..." Suddenly, he turns and presents his back to his partner. "Climb on," he says, crouching down.

"Crane, this is not the time for—"

"Lieutenant, I believe this fog is what has caused our... loose lips. I felt better when I stood up. It was though my head cleared. Now, climb on. If you please," he explains.

"All right," she mutters, holstering her gun. She grabs his shoulders and jumps onto his back. He passes her the flashlight, then grips her legs just above her knees.

"Deep breaths," he instructs.

She does as she has been told. "Whoa. Better. Thank you," she says, reaching up to push his hair out of her face.

"Shall we proceed?" he asks.

"Yes, let's see where this thing leads," she answers. _So, we're not going to talk about what just happened then?_

They move along the tunnel for a few minutes, following the path. _Prove him wrong about the walls._ "So... truth fog, huh?" she ventures.

He hitches her up onto his back again, adjusting his grip. "It would seem," he answers. "And I would very much like to continue that... frank discussion later. If you are agreeable, of course."

Surprising them both, she turns her face and kisses his temple.

"And I only speak forty- _five_ languages, thank you very much," he adds, smiling into the darkness.


	4. The Patient and the Nurse

When Crane was sick, he was introduced to a whole new world of modern medicine. Even things as simple as Kleenex were declared a "marvel". While he lauded the invention for being "much more hygienic than handkerchiefs", he destroyed an entire box trying to figure out how the tissues pop up, one after the other.

However, despite his ever-growing acclimation into this century, he was not prepared for food poisoning.

Perhaps, if _he_ had been the one to fall victim to the treacherous bacteria, it wouldn't have been too bad. Perhaps if _he_ was the one curled into the fetal position on the bathroom rug, he wouldn't feel so completely helpless.

"Miss Mills, you should not be on the cold floor," he says, padding quietly into the bathroom after he realized there hadn't been any sound coming from the small room for quite some time. "This will not do at all." He crouches down beside her and delicately sweeps some stray tendrils of hair off of her face.

"I just keep coming back in here anyway," she mutters, not opening her eyes. "Figured I'd camp out. And I'm on the rug."

"A rug that does nothing towards providing warmth or comfort," he contests. "Lying on a cold, hard surface such as this will not only do nothing to improve your illness, but it may create other ailments or injuries as well," he says. She cracks one eye open and glares at him. "I also do not like seeing you curled on the floor like this," he admits.

"I'm on a rug," she weakly argues.

"Please, Abbie," he presses, laying his large hand on her back, rubbing softly. She sighs, and he takes that as her giving consent. He carefully guides her upright. "Your... episodes are becoming further apart," he informs.

"Are they? I can't tell," she says, leaning against him.

"Yes, it's been a good twenty minutes since the last time you, um, visited this room," he says. He moves his arms, slipping one beneath her knees while the other cradles her back.

"I can walk," she protests.

"Can you?" he challenges, raising an eyebrow at her. She sighs again and drops her head against his shoulder. He lifts himself to one knee, the other foot planted on the floor. Once he is certain of his balance, he stands.

"You're stronger than you look," Abbie murmurs as he carries her to her bed. "Will you take me to the couch? I need a change of scenery."

"Anywhere you like," Ichabod answers, changing direction. "Well, anywhere except the bathroom floor." He sets her on the couch, careful not to jostle her. "Is there anything you require? I sometimes find a hot water bottle helps soothe a tender stomach." He settles a blanket over her, wishing to do something – _anything_ – to help her.

"That sounds really nice actually. I have a heating pad in the hall closet," she says, pointing.

"Heating pad?" he asks, going to the closet.

"You'll see it," she says, snuggling into the cushions, too tired and weak to explain. She adjusts the pillow slightly, then settles back in.

"Ah. I see," he says, inspecting the heating pad. "Electric heat. Much more convenient," he declares, bringing it over. He finds an outlet, plugs it in, and holds the pad down towards her. "Um..."

"Here," she says, taking and shoving it under the blanket to settle against her stomach. She gropes for the switch and sets it to medium.

"Anything else? Shall I switch on the television for you?" he asks.

She opens her eyes again and notices his fingers flexing in that way they do when he is anxious. "Crane, I'm okay. I mean, I'll be all right," she says. "I'm gonna be down for a few days, but I'll be fine."

"Of course you will," he unconvincingly answers.

"Yeah, well, your hands don't agree," she says. He quickly clasps the offending appendages behind his back. "Sit," she tells him.

"I feel so helpless," he admits, sitting on a nearby chair. "There is nothing I can do to make you feel better, and... I hate it."

She gives him a weak smile. "I know," she replies. "I... I'd be the same way." She closes her eyes again, exhausted though she's been sleeping a lot. "Your simply being here helps."

"I will not argue with you, but to me, it feels inadequate," he says. "Would that I could take this from you and place it on my shoulders... er, stomach."

"You don't want this," she says, smiling. Her eyes are still closed. "There's no telling what this would do to your 18th Century body," she points out.

"Fair point, but it does not change the fact that your illness makes me uneasy," he admits. "I know deep in my bones that we are... oh, how do I say this without sounding grim?"

"We'll die together?" she suggests, opening her eyes.

He nods his confirmation, and she flops one arm out from beneath the blanket, offering her hand. He takes it. "However, you being compromised leaves us vulnerable."

"I know," she quietly agrees, knowing that's not the only reason for his uneasiness.

His thumb absently skates across her knuckles. "I don't believe I need to tell you what you mean to me, Abbie," he quietly says, eyes downcast. "You are my dearest friend and I cannot imagine my life without you, in this time or any. That is how much I have come to rely upon our bond. Our friendship." He looks at her. "It pains me to see you in pain. Simple as that."

She pulls their joined hands toward her face, and kisses the back of his hand. "Same, Crane," she says. "You're my best friend, too, you know that. I think sometimes you know me better than Jenny does."

"Only sometimes?" he asks, a slight smile on his face.

"Oh, don't make me laugh," she moans, reflexively releasing his hand to hold her sore stomach.

"Sorry," he apologizes, reaching out to tuck the blanket more securely around her. "I will stay here with you for as long as you are ill," he comments, not wishing to leave her alone, what with Jenny being out of town.

"Thanks. You might want to go back to the cabin for a change of clothes," she says. "It's going to be at least two days. Possibly three."

"Oh?" he asks with a frown, clearly displeased with the fact that she will be ill for so long.

"Sadly, I've had this before. I know what to expect," she explains, shifting to try to get more comfortable.

"You've had this before?" he asks, surprised.

She nods. "Food poisoning is sneaky," she answers. "Last time, it was a Mexican restaurant. Took down both me and Corbin."

"And this time, it was a seemingly harmless salad," he sighs.

She closes her eyes again. "Always wash your hands. And your fruits and vegetables," she responds. "I think I want to try to sleep some more."

"Of course," he says with a nod. "Please let me know if there is anything you desire."

She is quiet a minute. "Gatorade would be good," she says.

"Gator...?" he asks.

"It's a drink. You'll have to go to the store."

He says nothing, clearly torn between fetching what she wants and staying by her side. He really doesn't want to leave her alone.

"I'm going to be sleeping, remember?" she asks, opening her eyes again.

"Very well," he answers. "Is this 'Gatorade' spelled just as it sounds?" She nods, and he shrugs on his coat.

"Oh, there are lots of flavors. Orange is my favorite," she says.

"Orange it is," he says. "I trust I have leave to operate your car?" he adds with a small smile.

Abbie simply snorts and waves her hand as regally as she can manage. She hears him walk to the door, pausing to retrieve her keys from their dish. "And graham crackers, please," she adds. "For later. When I can start eating again."

"Graham crackers," Ichabod repeats, brows momentarily furrowing before his expression brightens again. "Ah! Those sweet, brown biscuits we ate with the chocolate and marshmallows by the fire last summer."

"Yeah. If you need help finding that stuff, just ask Heather. You know she's _always_ more than happy to help you," she says, a weak, teasing smile on her face.

"Yes. Quite," he tightly agrees, hoping the 17-year-old is _not_ working today. She's never behaved inappropriately, but her schoolgirl crush makes him a little uncomfortable nevertheless. "Rest well, dear Abbie."

"I'll try, thanks," she answers.

When he returns 30 minutes later, he can see her feet through the half-open bathroom door. They are sideways. She is on the bathroom floor again. He drops the bags on the table and hurries in. "Oh, Abbie..." he breathes, then scoops her up in his arms once more.

"Hey," she greets. "I was just on my way back to the couch..."

"Of course you were," he replies, gently setting her down. He tucks the blanket around her again and softly kisses her forehead. "I'm not leaving you again."


	5. In a Small Space

"Crane, don't..." He lands with a thump beside her in the small air shaft. "...come down here," Abbie finishes with a sigh. She looks up at him, stretching her neck back because he is _so_ close in the small shaft. "There's no way out but up there," she says, nodding upwards.

"Oh, dear," Ichabod answers. "Oh, dear, oh dear," he repeats, a little more agitatedly.

"Yeah, I was going to have you lower a rope or something." She frowns and looks up at him, irritated. "There's one in my... car... hey, are you all right?" Her annoyance turns to concern when she sees the panic in his eyes, and she remembers the claustrophobia he developed after two bouts of being buried alive.

His breathing is shallow, his fingers are twitching at his sides, and his eyes are frantically scanning the limited space around them, peering in the dim light filtering in from above. He reaches up, squeezing his arms into his body to be able to raise them, and starts patting the walls with his hands. "We must find our way out of here, Lieutenant," he says, his voice quiet and words fast as he continues to grope the walls, looking for... anything that might free them.

"Crane," Abbie softly says, trying to get through to him.

He continues as though he hasn't heard her. "I cannot stay down here in this... hole... it's like... it is as if... all the air is being sucked from the environs..." He suddenly stops, his fingers pressing so hard his nail beds are dark pink, the tips white. "Is... is it getting _smaller_ in here?"

" _Crane_ ," she repeats.

"It _is_... the walls... they are... pressing inward..."

" _Ichabod!_ " She reaches up and places her hands on his cheeks, directing his face down to hers. She waits until his eyes focus again. She needs his full attention. "I know you've developed some claustrophobia, and I don't fault you at all for it. But you need to try to stay calm."

He nods, dropping his hands from the walls. Abbie feels them land on her waist. It's a little more intimate than usual, but she doesn't care. _Whatever he needs to get a grip. If he needs to get a grip on_ me, _so be it._ "Forgive me, Lieutenant," he murmurs, endeavoring to calm himself.

"Nothing to forgive," she says. She moves her hands from his face, and can just see his panic edging back in. His eyes flit around the air shaft again. "Hey. Eyes on me, okay? Watch me, not the walls," she says, and he obediently looks back at her face. "I'm just getting my phone. Hopefully, there's some service down here..." she mutters, awkwardly extracting her phone from her inside jacket pocket. She tries to make a call, keeping one eye on her partner, making sure he is focusing on her instead of their confines. "Not going through. I'll try texting."

"All right," Ichabod says, watching her face. Focusing on her smooth skin, her large, beautiful eyes, full lips, the way her hair curves around her face, brushing her neck. Committing every detail to memory, even though he already knows her face as well as his own.

"It's trying to send... I'll check it in a few," Abbie says, pocketing her phone again. She looks up at him, this time resting her hands on his chest. Her fingers idly pick at his lapels and buttons. "We'll get out, don't worry. Jenny knows where we were going anyway. Even if she doesn't get the text, she'll eventually come looking for us."

"Eventually?" he asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Sorry. Bad choice of words," she says, giving his chest a reassuring pat.

"This is... larger than the casket... _both_ caskets, at least," he allows.

"Room for two," she says with a weak chuckle.

"Indeed," he agrees. They are quiet for a few minutes, each thinking that there really _isn't_ room for two. They are pretty much pressed against one another. There are mere inches of space in some places, but Ichabod's back is flush against one wall, Abbie's the opposite. Close proximity with the other isn't an issue for either of them, but they've never been quite _this_ close before. He thinks he can feel her heartbeat, though how that is possible over the rapid pounding of his own, he does not know. "Abbie," he hesitantly begins, his fingers reflexively tightening on her waist.

"What do you need, Ichabod?" she asks. She leans her head against the wall behind her, her neck growing sore from looking up.

He doesn't answer right away, deciding if he should voice his request. "You have such a beautiful singing voice... would you distract me with a song?" he asks, looking almost sheepish about making such a childlike request. "Please?"

"Sure," she says, smiling. She closes her eyes a minute, thinking. _What can I sing? Something soothing._ The song her mother always sang them, "You Are My Sunshine," pops into her head, but she cannot bring herself to sing that one. "Ah," she opens her eyes and begins. "Stars shining bright above you..."

Ichabod's face softens as he gazes down at his partner, her bell-like voice echoing in the metal shaft, giving it a slightly ethereal quality. He notices she sings more to his chest and neck than to his face, but he doesn't mind. He figures it might be a little awkward, singing directly _to_ someone this closely. _Especially given the difference in our height._

"...Dream a little dream of me," she continues, eyes now rather downcast, as if she doesn't want him to think she is making a request. "Say, 'Nighty-night' and kiss me...'"

His eyes unconsciously land on her lips when she sings of kissing. The thought occurred to him once or twice, in the deepest corners of his mind, in the small hours, when sleep has eluded him and his brain travels to places his fully-alert mind would never allow. _She is a very beautiful woman._ He indulges these thoughts now, telling himself that he is merely allowing them as a distraction, a device to ward off his claustrophobia. Her plump lips form the words of the song, one he hasn't heard before, but, by its content he guesses it is an older one. There are no words like "booty" or "baby" or "sexy" in the lyrics. It is sweet; a lullaby of sorts.

"Dream a little dream of me," Abbie finishes the song, then peeks up at him, suddenly shy.

"That was beautiful, Abbie. Thank you," Ichabod says, his voice nearly a whisper.

She blinks once, slowly lifting her chin. "You're welcome," she says, wondering if they are, indeed running out of air as Crane had said earlier. The air feels rather... thick. Charged. She moves one hand to grope for her phone. "Um... I should check... my..."

Her words die off as his head dips, moving closer to her upturned face. His hand creeps upward until it is cupping her cheek. His thumb strokes her cheekbone once as his lips hover centimeters from hers.

"Crane..." she whispers, not sure if she's telling him to stop or proceed.

"Lieutenant," he answers, his voice barely more than a breath caressing her cheeks as he moves closer still, his nose lightly brushing hers in a soft nuzzle, his heart now pounding for a very different reason.

"Hey! You guys down there?"

They are startled by Jenny's shout, but neither of them move their heads, their faces still _so_ close.

"To be continued, Miss Mills," Ichabod murmurs before slowly lifting his head, his eyes locked on hers. He is well aware he could still kiss her now, even just one small one, but now that this door has been opened, he wishes to give this moment the time and attention it deserves.

Abbie blinks again. Now it is she who is breathing erratically. She shakes her head, trying to clear it. "Down here!" she calls, looking up at the opening at the top of the shaft. "I hope you have a rope or something!" She looks back at Crane, who is still staring down at her as though he is seeing her for the first time again. She slides her hand up his chest, returning it to his cheek. Her mind is reeling, yet empty. She can't think of a thing to say that isn't stupid, trite, or embarrassing. She skims his lower lip with her thumb, her fingers curling into his beard.

He smiles.

The rope drops.

"After you, Lieutenant," he says.

"You can go first," she counters. "You're the one with claustrophobia."

"It will take both you and Miss Jenny to haul me up," he points out. "And I find I am feeling rather... at peace at the moment."

"He's right, Abs. You first. Sometime today, preferably," Jenny says, her head appearing above them. "Some of us have things to do, you know."

Abbie grabs the rope, and Crane helps lift her as best he can, given their limited space.

They lower the rope again for Ichabod, and when they pull him up, Abbie swears she hears him humming "Dream a Little Dream of Me."


	6. Out of Town on Business AU

Dr. Ichabod Crane looks up from his notes again. He knows that the bar/restaurant just off the hotel lobby is not the ideal place to go over his lecture notes, but he was hungry and wanted a change of scenery from his hotel room, so he decided to venture downstairs.

If it hadn't been pouring rain, he may have ventured out to find a quieter establishment, but he really didn't feel like dealing with the rain.

So, the hotel pub it was. Unfortunately, there was some sort of policeman's convention taking place in this same hotel, and the weather has also kept the hundreds of, in Crane's opinion, rowdy officers indoors as well.

The noise that had pulled his attention from his notes happens again. A raucous cheer. Crane sighs, glances up only briefly this time, then buries his nose back into his notes. As he strikes out an unnecessary word, a new sound draws his attention.

Laughter. A woman's laugh. A woman's laugh like music. A woman's laugh like the music of a rippling stream through the English countryside.

His eyes go in search of the source, and they quickly land on a beautiful petite black woman seated with several men. Her eyes catch his for just a moment, then look down and away, almost coquettishly.

 _Is she a police officer?_ He returns to his notes. A moment later, unable to help himself, he peeks up at her again. She is looking straight at him. One of the men at her table, a young Asian man, says something to her. It looks like a question. She gives him a quick answer just as Crane forces himself back to his task.

Another cheer.

"Shut _up_ already. We're not the only people in this hotel, you know."

He sharply looks up to see this tiny spitfire dressing down another table, this one filled with men twice her size.

"You'd think you'd know better, being police officers. Damn," she says, shaking her head.

The room has gone quiet now, as everyone is watching this exchange.

"Listen, lady..."

"Lieutenant," she corrects the man, cutting him off. She squares her shoulders and pulls her ID out of her back pocket. Crane watches with undisguised interest as she angles her head at this ruffian and reiterates, "Lieutenant Mills, Westchester County Sheriff's Department, actually..." she peers at the ID hanging around his neck, "Sergeant."

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," the sergeant replies. "We'll be quieter."

She gives him a curt nod, then turns back towards her table. She takes a more circuitous route, passing Crane's table on the way. Curious, he boldly watches her approach.

She winks at him, then returns to her companions.

The next ten minutes or so are filled with furtive and not-so-furtive glances. Finally, Crane's waitress comes to his table to see if he needs anything.

"That young woman there," he asks. "What is she drinking?"

"She's been drinking water all night, Hon," the waitress, an older woman, answers with a knowing smile.

"Oh," Crane answers. "Well, um, please put her next bottle on my bill, and, if I could trouble you to give her this?" he asks, handing her a folded slip of paper.

"Sure thing, Professor," the waitress answers. "She's had her eye on you, too, you know."

Crane merely smiles. "Thank you, Miss Nancy."

He has basically abandoned his work, his mind too distracted by this beautiful police lieutenant. His presentation was already well in order anyway.

Nancy walks over to the table with a bottle of water on her tray. "Here you go, miss," she says, setting the bottle down. “Courtesy of the gentleman," she says, figuring the pretty police officer would know to whom she is referring.

A round of saucy "Ooo"s sound from the men seated at the table.

"Oh," Abbie says, surprised, a slight smile on her face. "Thank you."

"He also asked me to give you this," Nancy adds, handing her the note. "And between you and me, 'gentleman' is definitely the right thing to call him. If I was twenty years younger... and single..." she chuckles.

Abbie returns the woman's smile, her cheeks strangely warm. "Please thank him for me," she says, holding the note in her hand, intentionally letting her anticipation build.

Nancy nods and makes her exit.

Abbie opens the note, angling it away from the prying eyes of Andy and Luke. "Back off, losers," she says, laughing. She reads the message, unconsciously biting her lower lip.

_If I had the words, I would write sonnets about your eyes and songs about your lips. -I.C._

"What does it say, Abbie?" Frank asks, the only one not giving her hell about her admirer.

"Nuh-uh. I'm not telling you guys _anything_ ," she says, folding it and quite deliberately slipping it into her bra, next to her heart.

Twenty feet away, Ichabod Crane's eyes widen.

"Must be good. She's blushing," Luke says.

"How can you tell?" Abbie asks, throwing a wadded up napkin at him. Her exterior is cool, but her mind is reeling. _I don't have any paper! How can I get a message back to him without these idiots giving me complete shit about it?_

"I can tell," Luke answers. "I _am_ a detective, you know."

"Yeah, whatever," Abbie waves him off. "I'm going to the bathroom," she says, standing and going to the one place she knows they cannot follow her.

She stops at the front desk and gets a piece of paper. Just as she is trying to decide what to write ( _Would it be trashy of me to just write my room number? What can I even reply to what he wrote?_ ), she hears a deep, smooth voice speak behind her.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant," Crane says.

 _Oh, that is so sexy._ "Hello," she says, turning around and tucking her hair behind her ear.

"I merely wished to thank you for asking those gentlemen to quiet down. I apologize if my note was a bit... forward. I am not usually so brave," he says.

She looks him over. He's tall, towering a foot taller over her, and quite slender, but fit. His eyes are soft and intelligent, set above an aristocratic nose and neatly trimmed beard. He has his long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and a leather portfolio slung over his shoulder.

"I was actually trying to think of an appropriate reply," she admits, showing him the notepad. "I loved your note," she adds. "It was the nicest compliment I've ever received; thank you."

He regards her for a moment before cocking his head to the side, unable to believe such a beautiful woman is not constantly showered with compliments. "You are very welcome. After I handed it off to Miss Nancy, I feared it was too... corny," he admits with a shy smile.

"It was beautiful," she replies, smiling at his endearing formality.

"I would like to ask if I could buy you a proper drink, but I fear our return to the pub would cause a bit of a stir amongst your companions," Crane says, glancing towards the bar.

Abbie laughs, that wonderful sound again. "Probably." She bites her lower lip again. "What's your name?"

"Ichabod Crane, at your service, Lieutenant Mills," he introduces himself with a slight bow.

"Abbie," she informs with a smile. "But I do really like the way you say 'Lieutenant'."

"It is simply how we pronounce it in England," he explains with a slight shrug. He looks over at some plush chairs in a corner of the lobby. "Would you care to sit with me and talk for a time in lieu of sharing a drink?" he asks, gesturing.

She looks over at the seats. _Secluded, but not private. Still a public place, though I'm pretty sure I could take this guy if he turned out to be a creeper._ "Sure, okay," she answers.

He offers his arm. She takes it.

He learns she is there for a police training convention on close quarter combat techniques. "You may be twice my size, but I could still take you down," she teases, perhaps flirting a little. The image of Crane on the ground beneath Abbie flits through both their minds, and neither finds the prospect unappealing.

She learns he is a History professor from Georgetown University in town to give a series of guest lectures on the American Revolution. "I know that look," he says. "That is the 'Why is this British bloke talking about the American Revolution' look. It is an unusual specialty for a Brit, to be certain, but it is a field I find most fascinating."

Abbie nods, understanding. "Can't always explain why we like what we like, right?" She grins at him.

"Indeed not." Crane returns her smile. "I will say I do have a somewhat vested interest in the topic as I have an ancestor who defected to the American side," he explains. "That is the nature of this lecture series. It is called 'From Redcoat to Revolutionary', highlighting several men who came over as British soldiers but wound up defecting. Including my several-times-great uncle."

"Really? That sounds very interesting," she says, leaning closer to him. The more they talk, the more attractive she finds him. He's not her usual type. In fact, her "usual type", one ex-boyfriend Luke Morales, walked through the lobby a short time ago with a sullen-looking Andy Brooks. They were accompanied by Captain Frank Irving, who, as usual, looked to be about 110 percent done with everything around him. Luke snorted and rolled his eyes when he spotted them. Brooks wouldn't look her way. Frank gave her a brief nod which clearly said, "First seminar is at nine tomorrow." Abbie was thankful Ichabod's back was facing them.

 _He's sexy in a kind of intellectual way. And his_ voice _, oh my God. I bet some of his students never miss a class for that reason alone._

"You truly find this interesting?" Crane asks, blinking in surprise. "I had just been sitting here thinking I was probably boring the life out of you."

"I'm not bored at all," she answers. "It's really nice talking about something besides police work. In fact, of the three guys I'm here with, the only person with whom I can hold an intelligent conversation is the captain. He is the older black guy in our group. Morales doesn't take anything I say seriously and Brooks has had an unrequited crush on me since high school that he _really_ needs to get over because he knows I am not interested." She pauses a minute. "Sorry. Didn't mean to unload on you there. It's been a long couple of days."

He smiles understandingly, impulsively reaching out and placing his hand over hers. "It's quite all right," he says.

She turns her hand and twines her fingers through his. "I do have my own room, which is nice. Morales and Brooks have to share."

"Silver lining then," he says, pondering their joined hands. _Her hands are so small, but I can feel the strength in them._ He's becoming more and more smitten as the night wears on, and her mention of the hotel room did not go unnoticed by him. _No. I am a gentleman. As much as I would love to spend this last night in Ithaca entwined with this petite goddess, she deserves better than a one-night romp with a near stranger. I have never been inclined to take part in such endeavors anyway. I will simply enjoy whatever time I get to spend with her._

They talk through the night, eventually ending with Ichabod escorting Abbie back to her room. "I've enjoyed this very much, Abbie," he says, taking both her hands in his. "I would love to be able to see you, um, giving the slap-up? To these men who are twice your size," he says with a smile.

She chuckles warmly. "Putting the smackdown on them," she reminds him. He had confessed to not being very well-informed on matters of pop culture, which she has found endlessly amusing but rather adorable. "I'd love to be able to hear your lecture tomorrow," she tells him.

"Well, you've missed the first two parts, so I'm afraid you might be a bit lost anyway, so..." he replies with a smile.

"Oh, don't think I could keep up?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

"What? Oh. Oh, dear. I didn't mean—"

"Ichabod," she interrupts, breaking into a grin. "I'm just messing with you."

"Ah," he says with a slightly embarrassed chuckle. "Of course."

"I hope it's not early in the morning," she says, noting the hour. It's nearly four a.m.

"It's at two," he informs. "I will have plenty of time to sleep, which, I'm sorry to say, is not the case for you. Nine a.m. is going to be here rather quickly."

"How did you...?"

"There is a large whiteboard in the lobby bearing the schedule of events," he explains.

_I love his accent. Lieutenant. Schedule. I need to get him to say "leisure" some time._

"Right," she laughs. There is a small lull, only slightly awkward, before she presses on. "Well, I suppose I should at least make an attempt at sleeping."

"Please do, Abbie," he says, his voice a soft rumble. His eyes roam her face, stopping to rest on the lush lips he'd been admiring all evening. "May I kiss you?" he asks.

Those lips part just slightly, and she nods. He releases her hands to gently cup her face, tilting it up to meet his descending lips. It begins as a sweet kiss, but in moments her hands come up to rest on his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. One of his hands leaves her face to wrap around her waist.

She lifts up on tiptoe, pressing closer as she lightly sucks on his lower lip, encouraging him, and soon his tongue is sliding sinuously against hers, her back pressed against her hotel room door. When he begins to feel the urge to lift her into his arms and encourage her legs to wrap around his waist, he pulls away, breathing heavily.

"Abbie, I..."

"If this is all we're going to get, I need another one," she whispers, tugging him down to meet her again.

xXx

On impulse, Abbie and Ichabod had traded phones that night and entered their contact information for one another. They have kept in contact, mainly communicating via text message. It wasn't regular or frequent correspondence, but they each treasured every message from the other, despite the small, sharp stab of longing they felt at the reminder that she is in Sleepy Hollow and he is in Washington, D.C.

Then, after six months, he stopped hearing from her. Two weeks went by with no message from Abbie. _Well, I guess that's that_ , Crane thought one Saturday morning as he scrolled through his phone at the kitchen table over tea and toast. _I would have expected her to at least say goodbye._ He makes a decision, a sad decision, while brushing his teeth.

He sighs and pulls up their text thread as he plops back down on his bed. He is just beginning to type when there is a soft knock on the door to his apartment. _Who on earth?_ He pads to the door, barefoot, bare chested, hair tousled, and pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

When he opens the door, he feels as though all the air has been sucked out of his lungs and replaced with life anew.

"Hi." Lieutenant Abigail Mills is standing in his doorway, looking radiant.

"Abbie..." he breathes, struck dumb. He steps back and motions for her to come inside.

"Sorry I haven't texted. I've been moving," she explains, her eyes indulgently roving his bare chest.

"M-moving?"

She smiles and flashes her ID from Quantico at him, her smile growing at his light gasp. "Um, I don't want to presume anything, but—"

He crashes his lips against hers, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensations of relief and joy flooding through him. She is pressed up against the door again, only this time it is the inside of Crane's apartment door, not the outside of a hotel room door. "Do you have any plans today?" he breathlessly asks. He kisses her again before she can answer.

"That – mm – depends," she answers, her fingers in his hair, which is hanging loose around his shoulders.

"On?" he murmurs.

"You."

He pulls his lips away. "Well, I do not wish to presume..." he says, a saucy smile on his lips, his left eyebrow cocked upward even more saucily.

"I've missed you so much," she says. "It's so weird... we only met once, but..."

"Yes," he agrees, words leaving him. "Same." He picks her up, and she holds on with her arms and legs as he strides through his apartment.

Later, sated and beyond happy, they lie on Crane's bed, Abbie's head on his chest, her leg wrapped around one of his. "I almost made a really bad 'The British are coming' joke," she says, tucking her head against his chest to hide her embarrassed face. "Decided it would be in poor taste."

He laughs, a hearty, loud guffaw of surprise. "Not only that, but inaccurate as well. That's not at all what Paul Revere said, you know."

She lifts her head. "No?" she asks. Then, she leans down and kisses him.

"No," he confirms. "I would be more than happy to tell you all about it if you—mmm..."

She swallows his words with a kiss, fully moving on top of him. She lifts her head just long enough to say, "Later."


	7. Accidentally Married

"What ya got there?" Abbie asks, sidling up to her partner. He is seated at a table in the Archives, poring over a very old-looking volume. She looks over his shoulder at the pages. There are drawings and the words are not in English.

"A book Frank gave me. Frank the Shaman, not Frank Irving," Crane answers, briefly glancing up at her.

"So that's Shawnee?" she asks, pointing at the words.

"Yes. It is a fascinating book. Whoever wrote it knew a great deal about the occult, demonology, and the book of Revelation." He flips through the pages. "There are incantations, ceremonies, and even recipes in here. It is like... the Shawnee version of Grace Dixon's diary."

"Cool," Abbie says, leaning against his shoulder. "You hungry?"

"Yes, I am," Crane says. "Do you have food?"

"Well, it's almost lunch time, but I have this very large blueberry muffin," she answers. "I'll split it with you."

"Thank you," he says. Then he turns around and looks at her. "And do split it _vertically_ this time, Miss Mills. I will not abide that trickery you pulled last time where you got the top and I was left with the stump," he quickly adds.

She laughs, then divides the muffin into two halves, making sure they each get some of the top. "You can even have the bigger piece," she says, handing it to him with a smile.

"Thank you," he repeats. He takes a small bite, then flips to another page, keenly aware of Abbie's interested presence over his shoulder. Perhaps a little _too_ keenly, but he stubbornly keeps his mind on his task.

"That looks simple," she says after a moment.

"Hmm?"

She points to a page. "Can you teach me how to read it?"

He is surprised, but agrees. "You must have seen something in this, as there appear to be two distinct sets of lines here," he says. "For male and female."

"Which is first?" Abbie asks, popping a bit of muffin into her mouth.

"Male, of course. It was the way it was then," Crane explains.

"It's the way it is now, more often than not," she mutters. "Read," she prompts, louder.

He reads, pronouncing the words clearly, even tracing the text with his finger as he goes so she can see how the characters – some are recognizable letters, some not – define the sounds. "Now you." He points.

Abbie leans over, her hand on his shoulder, looking carefully. She haltingly begins to read, and does an admirable job. Crane gently corrects her once or twice, but his smile tells her she is doing well. She hovers very close, and he can see into the very depths of her deep brown eyes when he looks up at her.

He reads, she reads, he reads, she reads. They eat bites of their muffin in between.

"That was fun," she declares, having finished the page. "So, what did we just read? It reminded me of English class in high school when we would read plays alou—"

"Oh dear..." Crane softly exclaims, cutting her off, his blue eyes wide with surprise as he looks over at his partner.

"What? What's wrong? What's happening?" Abbie asks, worried that they've accidentally performed some spell that is turning his insides into spiders or something. _I feel fine, but what about him?_ "Are you all right?" She starts gently prodding him, making sure he's not hurt.

"Oh... um... oh dear..." he stumbles. He places his hands over hers, stilling them, but quickly removes them, flustered. "I am well, Lieutenant, but..." He avoids her stare, looking down at the book in front of him.

"Out with it, Crane."

"I believe we are now married. At least according to ancient Shawnee tradition," he quietly informs.

"We're what now?" She takes a step back.

"I believe you heard me," he answers. "If... if we hadn't shared that blueberry muffin, it wouldn't be valid, but—"

"Wait, it _says_ we have to eat a blueberry muffin?" she asks, too shocked to even be properly upset. _There are worse people to be married to, I guess..._

"Not exactly. We read the vows. It says the... couple... must 'partake of shared bread' and... well, your hand was on my shoulder the entire time, which fulfills the other part. The best translation I can give for that is touch is required as well," he explains. "I am sorry, Miss Mills. Had I known that was what we were reading..." He trails off, feeling guilty for having led her down this path. And if he is perfectly honest, the prospect of marriage to his partner is not the most horrible thought. Not by a long shot.

"I know you didn't do it on purpose," she says, taking another step back. He suddenly seems far too close. "I mean, why would you, right?" she asks, attempting a weak laugh.

"Yes, exactly," he answers, hoping the words don't come out as awkward as they feel. "I was concentrating so much on pronunciation that the _meanings_ of the words did not begin to penetrate until we were done, I'm afraid."

"There isn't anything about a... a kiss in there, is there?" she asks, looking for a loophole.

He looks at the book, even turning to the next page. "No."

Abbie walks away, grabs an old can of soda from the day before, and drinks the remainder. It is flat and room temperature, but she needs the distraction. "Only according to the ancient Shawnee," she says, looking for confirmation.

"Only according to the ancient Shawnee," Crane repeats with a decisive nod. He stares at her, now ten yards away. _Although..._

"Well, that's a... relief..." she says, suddenly sounding very unsure if she is actually relieved.

"Indeed," he weakly agrees. He looks away and clears his throat, fingers flexing in his lap.

She rallies, trying to diffuse the tension with humor, her favorite weapon for these situations. "We already spend all our time together..." she says, angling her head at him. "I guess I could do worse," she adds.

"Thank you for your faint praise, Miss Mills," he replies. Then his face takes on that smug expression she knows so well and he adds, "Or shall I call you 'Mrs. Crane'?"

A surprised laugh escapes Abbie's lips. He so rarely makes jokes that they come across funnier than they actually are. "Nah, you're going to have to change _your_ last name to Mills," she counters.

His eyes widen and she laughs again. "Very droll, Lieutenant," he comments. He stands and walks over to her. He places his large hands on her shoulders and looks down at her, his expression serious again. So serious she nearly stops breathing. "You joke and say you could do worse than me as a husband," he says. "It is my opinion that I could not do _better_ than you."

Abbie looks up at him, stunned. "Crane..."

Crane bends down and kisses her forehead. "I would be a most devoted husband to you." His words are so quiet they are nearly a whisper, his breath soft against her skin.

 _To you._ She knows his word choice is deliberate, but she is too overwhelmed to even be able to process this new information.

Sensing her overloaded state, he moves his hands from her shoulders, steps back, gives her a slight bow, then heads for the door of the Archives.

"Where are you going?" she asks, suddenly not wanting him to leave.

"Coffee," he turns back, just inside the door. "You are overwhelmed, and I am giving you space, as that is what you require at this time. I will return with coffees." He glances at the clock. "Or perhaps lunch."

"Okay," she answers, sitting heavily in a chair. Her forehead is still tingling where he kissed it, and she rubs the spot with her fingers, remembering the feel of his lips, the prickle of his beard. _It wasn't as scratchy as I thought it would be._

Abbie's mind whirs. This day is not turning out anything like she thought it would. _Did he just tell me he was interested in more than friendship? I think he did._ She paces. _He knows me better than anyone. He knew I needed time to deal with that bomb he dropped on me, and he left._ She sits down. _He left. But he's coming back._ He _will always come back. But he's going to expect to talk when he returns._ She knows this as well as she knows her own name because, damn it, she knows him better than anyone, too. She stands again and walks to the window. _Am I interested in more than friendship? I can't say the thought never crossed my mind._

Katrina died a year ago. Crane found peace with it six months ago, and Abbie knows he is in a good place emotionally. _But am I? Calvin was fun, but it wasn't meant to be anything more than that. Maybe Crane was right years ago. Maybe all we really get is one another. In whatever way that may be._

_Do I want a different way?_

She doesn't realize how much time has passed, but Crane returns faster than she was expecting, bags in one hand, a cardboard drink carrier in the other.

Abbie turns toward him, and her decision is made for her as soon as she sees his face. "Marriage is a big step," she says. "We should really walk before we run."

He sets their lunch down and smiles over at her. "Come partake in some shared bread with me, Abbie," he says. "And we will discuss walking together."


	8. Dog Park AU

"Yeah, I'm not seeing anything here, Captain," Lieutenant Abbie Mills says into her phone, her eyes darting, taking in every detail. "I think it may have just been a jumpy caller."

"Okay, thanks, Mills," Captain Reyes' voice returns. "I thought as much, but since you were in the area, I figured I could have you check it out."

"Right. Looks like standard dog park goings-on here," Abbie replies. "I'll be back shortly. My car is on the other side of the park." She stays to the edges, not really wishing to engage with one of the numerous romping four-legged creatures running around the large, fenced-off grassy area. As she walks, she notices one of her boots feels loose and looks down. She crouches to re-tie the loosened lace.

"Oh!" Abbie exclaims, startled by the attention of a cold, wet, snuffling nose. The nose's owner nudges her, causing her to lose her balance and land on her butt.

"Franklin!" A male voice admonishes the dog, which Abbie can now see is a gargantuan thing with thick, silky black hair. A gargantuan thing that seems intent on making friends with her. "I am very sorry, Officer," the man says, stepping up to try to pull his curious dog away. "He's extremely friendly and doesn't know his own size." He offers his hand down to the woman, who is roughly the same size as the Newfoundland that has knocked her over.

"It's all right," Abbie says. "It's not really work if I don't get a little dirty." She takes his hand and stands, then brushes said dirt off her backside.

Franklin nuzzles her hand, thinking she is playing. His owner connects his lead and tugs him back. "Franklin, no," he firmly says. "Now sit." The dog sits, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as he looks adoringly up at Abbie. "Again, my apologies."

"I'm good, thanks," she says.

"I'm Ichabod Crane," he introduces. "And this is—"

"Franklin, I'm guessing?" she asks. Hearing his name, the large dog returns to Abbie's side and nuzzles her hand again, wanting to be petted.

"Yes," Ichabod says, smiling.

"Lieutenant Abbie Mills," she says, unconsciously flashing the badge on her belt at him. His shy smile and soft blue eyes making her suddenly wish she wasn't on duty.

"Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant... both of us. He seems to have taken a liking to you." As he looks down towards the pretty police officer, he doesn't blame his dog one bit.

"Um, yes," Abbie agrees. "I'm sure he's a very nice dog," she says, finally giving in and gingerly giving the dog a pat on the head, which is as high as her elbow.

"Oh," Ichabod realizes, "you... don't like dogs. I'm so sorry... I..." he stammers, growing rather embarrassed. He begins pulling his dog away from her.

"It's not that," she hastily says, feeling kind of bad about her standoffishness. "I don't _dis_ like dogs, I just... am... not interested in them? Does that make sense? I mean they're fine, but I'm just..."

"Indifferent," he says, understanding. "Franklin, _come,_ " he says to the dog, and the big animal relents again, stepping away from Abbie to sit beside his master. He still appears to be smiling at Abbie. "I'm s—"

"Okay, stop apologizing," she laughs, finally taking a moment to really look at the tall, thin man. _He's pretty hot. Skinny, but still hot. Seems very sweet, too._ "You're British?" she asks, looking for something to extend the conversation a little longer. She knows she's due back at the station, but decides she can take a couple more minutes.

"Yes. I've been here three months," he answers. "Couldn't come here without Franklin." He scratches the large dog behind his ears.

"So... you've permanently moved then?" she asks, finding herself angling her body more towards his and reaching up to tuck her hair behind her left ear. _Am I flirting? It's been so long I'm surprised I still know how._

"Yes. I took a teaching position at the local university," he explains. "Still gaining my bearings." He looks down at her, deciding if his instincts are correct. _She appears interested. I believe she was just flashing her lack of wedding ring at me, but... how exactly does one chat up an on-duty police officer?_ She blinks up at him with her wide brown eyes, and he decides to go for it. "Perhaps I need to make the acquaintance of someone who knows this town well. A... postal worker, or firefighter perhaps. Or... a police officer."

"Perhaps," Abbie evasively answers, looking down and then back up. "It depends on what kind of guide you want." He cocks an eyebrow and she continues. "Well, a mail carrier would be ideal if you just want to walk—"

At the sound of the word "walk", Franklin bounds up again, excitedly hopping in circles. He heads towards Abbie, and Ichabod manages to stop him from knocking her down again.

"Oh... I said the 'W' word," Abbie says. "Sorry," she apologizes.

"No, no, you couldn't have known, not being a dog person and all. He's still a puppy, so he gets _very_ excited," Ichabod says, trying not to glare at his dog. _Franklin, you bugger..._

Abbie's eyes widen. "He's going to get bigger? He's already nearly as big as me!"

He laughs. "Physically, he's done growing. But he's only a year old, so..."

"Right," she nods. Her phone beeps, reminding her of reality and her job. "Oh. Um, I need to get back to the station," she says. "They were expecting me five minutes ago."

"Of course," he says. "Sor— I mean, thank you for taking the time to talk with me. It was lovely making your acquaintance," he adds, mindful of her earlier request to stop apologizing. He still wants to ask her out, but fears the moment has passed. Fears Franklin's burst of exuberance killed that moment.

"It was my pleasure," she says, smiling at him.

"Oh..." he softly exclaims. _Perhaps the moment has not passed after all._ Sensing she wishes for him to make the first move, he decides to be direct. He looks her in the eyes and asks, "Would you be willing to give me your personal phone number, or must I contact the police station to find you again? I would very much like to continue our conversation."

Her smile broadens. "Of course. I would like that, too," she says. "Do you have a cell phone?"

"Oh. Yes," he says, pulling his cell from his pocket and passing it to her.

She enters her name and number into his Contacts, hands it back to him, and says, "I can show you around Sleepy Hollow, and Franklin can show me why I should like dogs."

"And what can I do for you?" he softly asks.

"You can show me that you really are as charming as you seem," she says with a smile, patting his chest once.

He catches her hand before she drops it and lifts it to his lips. "It will be my pleasure, Abbie." He releases her hand and nods to her.

"Hope to hear from you soon," she says, then starts walking away. "The weather is supposed to be good this weekend," she tosses over her shoulder, chuckling when she sees Franklin attempting to follow her. _He must be stronger than he looks if he can hold that dog back._

"Duly noted, Lieutenant," he answers. He cannot help watching her walk away. Her confident stride combined with the hypnotic sway of her hips is one of the more enticing things he's seen. He looks down at Franklin, who is also watching Abbie, whining quietly. "I understand," Ichabod says, scratching his dog behind the ears. "I quite like her, too."


	9. Memory Loss

"Abbie, oh thank heavens," Crane gasps the second her eyes open. He's been sitting at her bedside since she was admitted to the hospital two days earlier after a particularly nasty battle. He lifts their joined hands to his lips, gratefully kissing hers.

Jenny, unable to bear watching her sister lie motionless in a hospital bed for hours on end, had moved over to the window, where she alternated between staring outside and mindlessly scrolling on her phone. She sharply looks up at Crane's words.

Abbie regards him with a blank, wary look. "Abbie? Is... is that my name?" she asks, her voice hoarse and croaky.

He looks over at Jenny, alarmed, and she rushes over. "Yes," Jenny says. "You're Grace Abigail Mills, but you go by Abbie. Do..." she pauses, taking a deep breath, "do you know who I am?"

Abbie looks up at the young woman. _She's pretty. She looks like she's very concerned for me. A relative, perhaps?_ She decides guessing and pretending won't get her anywhere, and shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

"I'm your younger sister, Jenny," Jenny informs, her voice even and patient, in direct contrast to the panic she feels roiling about in her stomach. She glances at Crane, who looks like he is about to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

Abbie nods. "Okay," she answers. She stares hard at Jenny for another long moment. "Okay," she repeats. Then she looks at Crane again, wondering who this skinny guy with the British accent holding her hand is. _He's handsome... but his eyes... they look like they have seen much more than someone his age should._ "Are you... um... are we...?" she hesitantly asks. "Are you my husband?"

"No," Crane answers.

"Boyfriend?" she asks before he can continue. The prospect isn't entirely unattractive. She has no memory of her life, but he seems like a very nice person.

"No. We are partners and friends. Very good friends, Abbie," he says, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand. "My name is Ichabod Crane. You tend to call me by my surname."

"What kind of partners?" she asks, noticing this man is slightly trembling. _He looks like he's going to faint._

He glances at Jenny.

"It's kind of complicated," Jenny quickly says, maintaining her composure much more than Crane seems to be able to. "You need to get better first before we go diving into the hard questions," she says, hoping that "get better" means "regain her memory" so they don't have to explain the whole Biblical Witness deal to her.

"Should we summon the nurse, Miss Jenny?" Crane asks.

"How long?" Abbie asks. "How long have I been out?"

"Two days, Ab," Jenny says, reaching down and pressing the Nurse Call button.

"What happened to me? Why don't I remember anything? Who am I? Where are we? What's my job? Do... don't we have any other family, Jenny? Why is there only the two of you here?" she asks, starting to grow agitated.

"Miss Mills, your unrest is quite understandable, but please know that you are safe now and, while there are only the two of us here, we..." he breaks off, faltering, the words sticking in his throat.

"We're the two people you would want most to be here," Jenny says, resting her hand on Crane's shoulder. "We love you and we want you to get well, and... and if we have to teach you everything about yourself, we will."

Abbie closes her eyes, her head falling to the side, pointing away from them. Tears collect in the corners of her eyes and she doesn't want Jenny and Crane to see, though she suspects they won't care.

The nurse arrives, quickly checks Abbie over, and once she learns the patient's memory is gone, scurries away to find the doctor.

"How do you feel? Apart from having no memory, of course," Crane asks, hoping to distract her by discussing something else.

"My head is pounding. My back is stiff. My knee hurts a little. And I have to pee," she says.

"You have a catheter," Jenny says, making a face.

"Ugh," Abbie agrees. "Wait. So how do I know what a freaking _catheter_ is but not know my sister and best friend?"

"We never said he is your _best_ friend," Jenny hopefully says, stepping closer again.

"Oh... I... I guessed," Abbie admits. She looks at Crane. "Am I wrong?" she asks.

He shakes his head, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "No, Abbie, you aren't wrong."

"Abbie Mills... you're awake, I see," the doctor says, striding in, frowning at her chart. "Awake but very confused."

"That's one way of putting it," Abbie answers, sounding so much like her old self that Crane's breath hitches and he turns away, under the pretense of giving the doctor room.

Jenny grabs Crane's elbow and pulls him into the corner. "This is very bad," she whispers.

"I know. I... I have never felt so helpless," he admits.

"She needs to get her memory back. There's no way we'll be able to teach her everything she needs to know in the time we have... we don't know when the next shitstorm is going to hit," she says, her cool façade cracking.

"Not only that, but we want _our_ Abbie back... the way she was," he agrees, his fingers twitching at his sides. The nervous habit had declined significantly since he fully accepted the betrayals and deaths of his wife and son and decided to embrace his new life and time period, even if he stayed in the clothing in which he felt most comfortable. But now the long digits flex, stretch, and contract like never before.

Jenny notices his flying fingers, but says nothing. "Of course we do. But in the big picture sense, the _world_ needs her to regain her memory."

Crane sighs, nodding his head once, leaving his face downcast. His long, unwashed hair hangs in his face. "If Katrina were still alive, there would be a chance she could..." he sighs again, looking into Jenny's skeptical face. "No, there would never be a chance of that, no matter how many lifetimes I live," he decides.

Jenny almost laughs. "No, there wouldn't," she agrees.

"Excuse me. Miss? You are Miss Mills' relative, correct?" the doctor inquires.

"Yes," Jenny turns and walks over, Crane trailing behind. "Jenny Mills. What's up?" Jenny asks, crossing her arms in front of her, trying to stop her _own_ hands from fidgeting like Crane's.

"As I'm sure you've figured out, Abbie has awoken with amnesia. Hopefully acute retrograde amnesia, which means..."

"I know what it means. Do you think she'll snap out of it?" Jenny asks.

"Lying right here," Abbie chimes in. "I'm not _that_ far gone."

Crane resumes his place at her side as Jenny and the doctor turn to include her in the conversation. Abbie absently gives him her hand, which he gratefully takes.

"It is very possible you will snap out of this, yes," the doctor answers. "The only variable is _when_. Could be hours, could be days, could even be weeks." He hesitates for a moment. "It's curious. I've never seen it quite this... thorough. Usually, a patient with amnesia will remember _something_ about his or her life up to a particular time, or a specific segment of time will be lost..."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the concept," Jenny dryly says, glancing at her sister to see if there is any glimmer of recognition there. They both had fully recovered their memories of that day in the forest, but lived for over a decade with a blank space in their memories.

"In many cases of retrograde amnesia, the patient's memory does return. We'll keep you here for another day or so to make sure you're physically well, but after that, well..." he leaves the implications hanging. Unfortunately, he has no idea how many lives – including his own – will be affected by Abbie not regaining her memory.

"We will look after her," Crane quietly says, his eyes on Abbie. "Miss Jenny and I will see to her well-being."

"Good," the doctor says. "Abbie, are you hungry? I'm afraid I can only offer you Jell-O or broth right now. If that goes well, we can upgrade you to toast."

"I'm starving," Abbie says. "I'll take Jell-O. Red, please. And I want this catheter out as soon as possible."

"Of course," the doctor says. "I'll send Nurse Tracy back in."

xXx

Abbie tried to send them home after her dinner of Jell-O and toast. Jenny had confessed she really wanted a shower, so she ran home to take one, promising to be back in an hour with some _real_ food. Crane said he would "think about" leaving to do the same once Jenny returned, but both Jenny and Abbie suspected he wouldn't be going anywhere.

Alone with Crane, Abbie felt slightly awkward. She had already learned a lot about both her sister and him, but the mysterious nature of her "partnership" with him and their reluctance (or refusal) to discuss it with her has made her both uneasy and irritated.

"Please tell me," she says, looking over at him. She reaches up to scratch her head under the edge of the bandage wrapped around it. She has learned there are stitches in her forehead, along with a nasty bump. "I'm a grown woman and am pretty sure I can take whatever screwed up relationship you and I are in."

He blinks at her. "First of all, there is nothing 'screwed up' about our relationship," he starts. "Miss Jenny and I simply th—"

"Hold up. That. The whole 'Miss Jenny' thing. Your clothes. I may be out of it but I know enough to know that there's something... different about you. I'm pretty sure it's not _just_ because you're British," she says.

He presses his lips together and slowly nods. "I am different, yes," he admits. He hesitates, then quietly says, "I was born in the year 1751." He watches her carefully, hoping this will jog her memory.

She watches him with equal care. "What year is it now?" she asks, completely serious.

"It is 2015," he answers. "And no, I am not crazy. You know I am not crazy."

"No, you're not crazy," she agrees. "You're not crazy, and I'm not crazy. You're... improbable, but I... I believe you. I don't know why, but I do."

He scoots his chair closer. "You believe me because you know, deep in your bones, in your very soul, that it is true. You have known me and I have known you since time was first recorded, Miss Mills," he says, his voice soft and fervent, as though he is speaking a heartfelt prayer. "Our lives have been intertwined since the Apostle John penned the Revelations of the Apocalypse. Perhaps even earlier than that." He stares into her eyes when he speaks and she stares right back, holding his gaze like no one else has ever been able to do.

"I feel like we're somehow... important," she says at length.

He nods again, allowing hope to blossom in his heart. "We are."

"Does my sister know? About you being super old?"

He smiles a little. "She does."

Abbie ponders everything, lifting her cup to take a sip of water. "What is it we do in this partnership we have?"

"Lieutenant..." he sighs, not sure how to even begin.

She blinks at him, her lips parting slightly. She deliberately sets her cup on the tray, staring at it. "W-what did you just say?"

His heart rate increases a bit. "Lieutenant," he repeats, saying it the way only _he_ does.

Her eyes close. "One more time."

He leans closer and takes her hand. "Lieutenant."

"I... remember... a... a room... no, a jail cell... you... you're dirty..."

"Yes..." he whispers, "go on."

She gasps, and her eyes open. "Sheriff Corbin... you, in a... glass room with wires attached... Andy... you, in a mental hospital?... Luke... you, in a dank hotel room... Headless... you, with a really old Bible..." she continues on, listing things – memories – with Crane in every other one, until finally, "Purgatory... Katrina!"

"Yes, Lieutenant," he says, hoping to prompt more.

"Moloch..." She looks straight at him. "Henry. I... I went back in time... came back and..."

"Yes," he simply says. They fall silent for a long ten seconds.

"Frank... he's gone. To Arizona. With his family."

"Yes."

Her eyes widen. "The... spider-thing..."

"Myrmecoleon," Crane provides, smiling not because of the beast, but because she _remembers_ what put her in this hospital bed.

"Yeah. In the forest. It... _did_ something to me," Abbie says. "Besides wrenching my knee and knocking me on the head. I heard it speak, in my mind." She looks over at him. "It said something about 'wiping clean'."

"It did not account for the strength of our bond," he says. "Or for Miss Jenny and her flame thrower."

"It was really gross," she replies. "So it's gone?"

"It's gone," he confirms. He squeezes her hand. "You... you remember? Everything?" he asks, now on the edge of his chair.

"When you called me 'Lieutenant', they started pouring in. The memories. I remember," she says. "I remember..." she pauses, thinking, "everything."

Relief floods into Crane, and he suddenly wraps her in his arms, hugging her tightly, but carefully.

"It's all right," Abbie says, suddenly consoling him as she feels his chest heave, "I'm back, Crane." She reaches up and returns his hug, grateful she is no longer attached to an IV line so she can use both arms. It feels nice. Warm and welcoming, like home.

"I've never been so scared," he admits, pulling away and wiping his eyes, not ashamed to let her see his tears.

"I can't imagine how you must have been feeling," she replies, slipping her hand into his again, missing the comfort it provides. "But with all _you've_ been through, you can't imagine waking up and not knowing who you are."

"No, sadly, I only have the unfortunate knowledge of waking up and not knowing _when_ I am," he says, smiling weakly. "Oh, and _where_ , let us not forget that."

"Okay, let's not make this about you now," Abbie teases. "I'm still in a hospital bed, so things get to be about me at least until tomorrow."

Crane chuckles, accepting her teasing without retort. "I am… glad you're back, Lieutenant. More so than I can express," he says.

"Come here," she says, tugging his hand. He moves to sit on the edge of her bed and hugs her again, carefully resting his cheek on top of her head. It starts as a hug and as she relaxes against him, gradually becomes him just holding her in his arms.

"What's going on?" Jenny's voice is calm, but wary. Crane looks up to see her standing in the doorway, bags from Popeye's Chicken in hand.

"Jenny, it's okay," Abbie quickly says, lifting her head from his chest and sitting up. "I remember. I remember everything."

"Oh, thank God," Jenny exhales, shoulders sagging. She sets the bags down and comes to hug her sister.

"Never want to experience _that_ again," Abbie sighs, pulling away to see her sister's eyes as wet as her own. "Stop it." Her voice wobbles, half laughing, half crying as they wipe one another's tears. "Bring that chicken up here," she says, lightly pushing her sister's shoulder.

"Yes, she's back all right," Jenny laughs, going to retrieve their late, clandestine dinner.


	10. Drunken Strip Poker

"What on earth...?" Ichabod mutters, weighing a leather drawstring bag in his hand. He just found it inside a drawer in Corbin's – now Abbie and Jenny's – cabin.

Joe Corbin found the deed to the cabin on his latest trip back to Sleepy Hollow and decided he had no use for the place, so he gave it to Abbie, saying his father would have wanted the two Mills sisters to have it. "I didn't even know he had that cabin," Joe had confessed.

"Neither did I," Abbie laughed, taking the papers. "Thanks. Hey, is it all right with you if we let Crane keep staying there?"

Joe simply shrugged. "Your place now. Do with it what you want."

"No, I mean, would you be... upset if we, you know, made it more of a home... for him?" Abbie clarified.

"You mean would I be offended if you cleared out some of Dad's stuff? Nah, go ahead," he said.

"If I find anything... meaningful, I'll keep it aside for you, me, and Jenny to go through next time you're in town," Abbie promised.

"Thanks," Joe replied.

"No. Thank you."

So Abbie and Ichabod set about going through every inch of the cabin, boxing up clothes (Abbie kept one flannel shirt; Crane declined everything, claiming the late sheriff was a "much burlier man than myself" and therefore "nothing would fit") and going through closets.

Jenny did not wish to participate in the purge. In a rare display of sentimentality, she admitted it would be too hard for her.

Abbie tackled the task as she did any other: with determination, detaching herself from her emotions.

 _Attempted_ to detach from them anyway. This is why she also tackled the task with a bottle of rum on the table, occasionally pouring out shots for herself and Crane, telling him, "I don't like to drink alone."

"Lieutenant," Crane calls, peering into the bag. It is filled with pennies. "Can you explain this?"

Abbie stands and emerges from the bedroom closet, where she was going through a box of what turned out to be mainly fishing supplies. She smiles. "Pennies?"

She looks quite charming in the flannel shirt, and the sight brings a smile to his lips. She has rolled up the sleeves, but it still hangs off of her like a bathrobe. "Yes. Why did Sheriff Corbin have a sack full of pennies?" he asks, weighing the bag in his large hand. "It certainly could serve as an effective weapon," he muses.

"Where did you find it?" she asks, indicating he should show her. "And what else was with it?"

"In the credenza," he says, pointing. "There is... a deck of cards... and a... what is this?" He holds up a plastic item. It is circular, red, and comprised of two identical halves held together with a central black knob.

Abbie smiles. "That's a card holder. For kids. You know, if your hands are too small to hold a bunch of cards." She walks to the table and pours out another two shots of rum.

"Ah. Like yours," he says, arching an eyebrow at her.

"Funny," she answers, handing him his shot. He downs it and she hands him the other glass. "You get a double for that remark."

Both eyebrows rise now, and he takes the glass and quite haughtily downs it as well. When he hands the glass back to Abbie, she is pouring a third shot, which she then knocks back.

"So... clearly all this is for some sort of card game?" Ichabod asks.

Abbie nods. "You ever hear of poker?" she asks.

"Game of chance, first documented as being played in the city of New Orleans, Louisiana, in 1829," he rattles off like a schoolboy making a recitation.

"Corbin used to teach Jenny and me. He had a similar bag of pennies at his house," Abbie explains, taking the bag and peering into it. She pokes her finger in, stirring the coins. "You wanna learn?"

"I have read—"

"Psshhh," she interrupts, waving her free hand as she steps closer to him. "Do you want. To learn?"

"Should we not continue our task?" he asks.

"It's getting late and we need a break. Go heat up that leftover Chinese food and I'll start shuffling," she says, patting his chest before heading to the table.

"Very well," he nods, knowing arguing is futile. He also knows that the events of the day have been emotionally draining for her and if his Lieutenant wishes for a break, then a break she shall have. And if he is completely honest, he is more than willing do whatever she wishes if it means making her happy. He heads to the kitchen and pulls the takeout boxes out of the fridge.

xXx

After a half an hour, Ichabod had mastered five-card draw, picking up the rules quite easily. They turned out to be quite evenly matched, what with knowing one another so well, but Abbie was clearly better at schooling her features into an unreadable "poker face". And the more Crane drank, the harder it became for him to control his eyebrow.

"This is all well and good, Miss Mills, but we are quickly reaching a stalemate," he says, shuffling the cards.

Abbie looks up from the study she hadn't realized she was making of his hands as they deftly manipulated the cards. "Hmm? Getting bored? Have another drink," she suggests, pouring him another shot. "You're bigger than me, so you need to drink more so we stay... you know... even."

 _She does have an impressive tolerance for one so small,_ he observes, setting the cards down. _However, there is no way possible she can match mine._ He drinks his shot, then picks them up again. "I simply meant I read there are variations of the game. Perhaps we could try one of those?"

"Mmkay," she replies. "Let's see... there's Five-Card Draw..."

"We've been playing that," he interjects, pouring himself another drink this time.

"I knooowww," she says, pushing her glass over as well. "I's just... namin' types. Five-Card Draw, Five-Card Stud... Strip Poker, Texas Hold'em... Seven Card something... I don't know how to play the seven card kinds..." She drinks.

"Did you say 'Strip Poker'?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

" _Did_ I say 'Strip Poker'?" she echoes, raising her own eyebrows.

"Yes. You did."

"Oh... that's where you play any kind of poker... but the loser of the hand, you know..." she waves her hand at her clothes. He gives her a puzzled "I don't have a clue" look. "Ugh. If you lose the hand, you take something off. How can you have been here for nearly four years and not know what stripping is?"

"Well..." he admits. He'd be blushing if his face wasn't already red from the rum.

Abbie laughs, louder and freer than she normally does. Then she grows quite serious, leaning forward on her elbows. "Well?" she asks, bolstered by the alcohol. She is feeling quite warm and pleasant. Her inhibitions are low enough for her to be willing to act on some of the more wayward thoughts that have been plaguing her for longer than she'd readily admit.

Ichabod's eyes widen. "Well what?"

"You game?"

"For... for Strip Poker?" he asks. _Is she truly suggesting this?_ Honestly, the thought of what his partner looked like unclothed had occurred to him more than once, and with increasing frequency as the days tick by. But the prospect of actually _seeing_ her is almost more than he can bear. Almost.

"Chicken?" she goads, slowly reaching across the table, her fingers walking across the wood. She snags the deck of cards from him, pulling it towards herself. When he hesitates, she starts making quiet clucking sounds.

He squares his shoulders. "I hope you are wearing many layers of clothing, Miss Mills," he declares, drawing similar courage from the same source as his partner.

"I know I have on more than _you_ do," she retorts, pointedly adjusting the flannel shirt over her t-shirt.

"In any case, I'd better stoke up the fire while you deal," he says, standing. "We don't want you catching a chill." He slightly sways, then walks a less-than-straight path to the fireplace, where the fire had been slowly dying.

"We'll keep it simple," Abbie declares. "Five-card stud. No drawing. Whoever has the best hand wins."

"Very..." Ichabod plops down into his chair with rather less grace than usual, "well." He grabs the bottle to pour them out two more shots. "Why are we still using these tiny glasses?" he muses aloud, standing again to go and retrieve two full-sized glasses.

"You're stalling..." she calls, carefully keeping her cards close to her chest as he walks past her. She watches him in the kitchen, telling herself she's counting how many articles of clothing he is wearing and _not_ checking out his backside at all. She finds herself thinking, _Nice,_ and realizes she is, in fact, checking him out. "Shoulda pulled your hair back today, Crane," she says. "You could count the hair tie as clothing."

He plunks the glasses down on the table. "That seems like it would make me a... cheater, cheater pumpkin eater," he replies, flopping into his chair once more.

Abbie laughs again, her head falling forward onto the table. "Whoa," she says, slowly lifting her head. "Spinny." She looks at Crane, studying his cards. "Where did you hear that?"

"Children at a p-lay-ground..." he explains, over-enunciating the last word, which only draws Abbie's eyes to his lips.

She blinks a few times, takes a long drink of her rum, then says, "Whatcha got?"

"I believe I have... nothing," he says, showing his cards.

"Ha... you got better nothing than me." She lays her hand down and his queen-high beats her nine-high. She pulls out the elastic holding her hair. "Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater," she sings, dropping the item on the table.

Crane grunts and takes a drink.

They alternate drinking and playing, and by the time the fire is low again, Crane is in his boxer briefs and Abbie still has her t-shirt, bra, and panties.

She loses the next hand. "Well, you've sssseen me in my bra before..." she says, her words slightly slurred as she struggles out of her t-shirt. "We had...n't even known each – oof – other that long either." She pulls her shirt off and flings it at his face.

He catches it as it falls, intentionally letting it hit his face so he could take in her scent. "But you still had your trrrousers on that time," he says. He begins to lean down to peek under the table, his curiosity too much.

"Crane, what the hell?" Abbie asks, kicking him in the shin. _If you're going under the table, at least be useful while you're under there._ She blinks and slightly shakes her head, willing away images of her partner's head nestled between her thighs.

"I am a... cruri... curri... an inquisitive person, Abbie," he says, lifting his head. "I was just looking... for... scientific reasons." He quickly closes his mouth before he blurts that the memory of her in her brassiere is one that he revisits often.

"Right," she says, taking the cards, not noticing he called her by her first name. "I'mma deal," she declares, mixing the cards on the table like a giant Go Fish pond, too lazy or drunk to shuffle properly. She gathers the cards into a haphazard stack, then tosses five cards at him.

Her heart sinks when she sees her hand. She peeks at him, and sees his brow furrowed, lower lip jutted out. _He looks adorable. I bet he made that face a lot when he was a kid._ Unfortunately, it will tell her nothing about his hand. She's honestly surprised he let the game continue on this long.

She's honestly surprised he agreed to play at all.

She moves her cards around, hoping they'll somehow start matching. She knows after this hand, she'll either have to expose something or he'll be completely naked, and the odds highly favor him keeping his drawers. Still, she bluffs.

"Dun dun DUNNNN..." Abbie sings. "Time to show me whatcha got... in one way or another."

Ichabod sets his cards down with exaggerated care, fanning them out beautifully, his long fingers dancing over them.

Two kings, a nine, and two threes.

"Shit," Abbie says, tossing her hand down. Eight, Jack, two, five, and ten. No matching suits. "All rrright," she says, bolstering her confidence. "Let's do this." _Top or bottom? I could take my panties off and continue to hide under the table..._

"Y-you do not have to if..." Crane starts, looking almost as anxious as she does.

"No, it's the rules," she replies. She takes her glass and drains it. "You wwwon fair an' square. I'm jus' tryna to decide which one is gonna go."

He drains his glass as well and stands. Abbie's eyes widen, certain parts of him suddenly right at eye-level. She looks elsewhere, but not after allowing herself a rather indulgent inspection. _He's skinny, but damn, he's fit._

She watches as he walks around the table, moving behind her. "Perhaps..." his hands land on her shoulders and she jumps, "perhaps I can help," he suggests, trailing them down her back, his fingers feather-soft over her shoulder blades, to the strap of her bra. He seems less drunk than before, which throws her slightly off-kilter.

"Okay," Abbie softly breathes, the word being the only breath leaving her.

Ichabod slips his fingers beneath the band, and she can feel them tugging and moving the garment, but he seems to be having trouble opening it. He kneels down to get a closer look.

Just as she reaches back to help, he opens the clasp. "Ah," he says, inspecting the two ends to see how they fit together. "Most in-genius..." he murmurs. She moves her head, trying to look back and see what he's doing back there. The familiar yet heady scent of her hair reaches his nose and he finds he can no longer resist the lure of her skin so close. He strokes her back with his fingers, pushing the bra out of the way in the process, then leans forward and kisses her spine.

"Ichabod," she says, but her voice is more of a moan than a warning.

He takes this as permission to continue, so he kisses again, and again, sweeping her hair out of the way as he moves up to her shoulder. Abbie's bra falls forward into her lap, but he doesn't notice because his eyes have drifted closed.

When he lightly sucks at her neck, she melts, dropping her head back. "What is happening?" she asks.

He lifts his head from her neck, still not looking down at her breasts. "I am finally giving in to my deepest desires, dearest Abbie," he rumbles, kissing the edge of her jaw. "The game and... the drink... have given me courage where I previously had none." His head is slowly spinning, but he's not sure if it's from the rum or from her.

"Oh, okay," she replies, reaching up to caress his face, stroking his beard. "Good." _So good._

"Good?" he asks, lifting his head again.

"Mmm-hmm," she answers. "I've been thinking about this too…" Her hand moves upward, her fingers threading into his hair as he continues to slowly and softly spread kisses over her neck, jaw and ear. "How we've both been too scared to… mmm, right there…"

He sucks lightly at the patch of sensitive skin he's discovered, then moves away, kissing her cheek right at the corner of her mouth. Then he moves his head away. "Abbie," he quietly says, his voice suddenly very sober and serious.

She opens her eyes. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because I want you... but I want you when you are in full control of your faculties," he says, sitting back on his heels. "When we _both_ are."

"I am in control enough," she says, looking over at him. "Don't think this is just the rum talking," she adds, her voice sounding clearer as she attempts to concentrate on _not_ being drunk.

"I don't think that," he replies, smiling. "But... it is not right. Not this way. You deserve better." She raises an eyebrow at him. "We both do," he adds, and she nods.

He's gotten her all wound up, but she also knows he is right. _Waiting is better. I want to be sober for... that. I want to be able to clearly remember everything._ "Okay."

"Come to bed then," he invites, standing. "To _sleep_. It's very late." He picks up the flannel shirt and drapes it over her shoulders, wishing to wait before seeing all of her. "We will sleep, and if we feel the same about... _this_ ," he motions between them, "in the morning, well..."

Abbie considers his idea. _I'm not going to change my mind, but I am really tired._ "Will you share the bed?"

"That was my intent," Ichabod answers.

"Okay," she agrees, standing and pulling the flannel shirt around her like a cloak.

While he takes his turn in the bathroom, she ditches the shirt, sliding into the bed wearing just her panties. _We should get him some new bed linens._

She is nearly asleep by the time he joins her, spooning behind her. He startles slightly when he feels her bare skin against his, and Abbie manages a small, sleepy chuckle before falling to sleep.

xXx

Abbie is hot. Too hot. Her back is sweaty, and it feels like she is surrounded by a heated blanket. She squirms, not ready to wake up yet. Her head feels a little thick and throbby, and though she can tell the sun is up, she is afraid to open her eyes. The hot blanket wrapped around her is very heavy.

And it has hands. One is holding her breast. Her eyes open as she remembers the previous night. Then they close again, and she finds she doesn't mind the hot blanket currently overheating her, because it is Crane. _Ichabod._ She squirms again, more deliberately this time.

"Mmm." A low rumble sounds behind her, and Ichabod moves, attempting to pull her closer. His thumb skims across her nipple. His hips flex forward into her backside. His lips brush her shoulder.

He stills behind her. _What has happened? Oh yes. That's right._ He kisses her again, firmer this time, and she sighs. "Good morning," he murmurs.

"It is, isn't it?" she sleepily replies, moving her head a little to entice him to kiss more.

"Do you remember last night?" he asks, gently taking her earlobe in between his teeth. From the looks of things, she does, and still feels the same. That knowledge is making him bold. Still, he must ask.

"Yes," she answers, "I do. I haven't changed my mind, and I am no longer drunk." However, his attentions are making her _feel_ slightly drunk again.

"Good," he replies, caressing her breast again as he lightly sucks the side of her neck. "Because I've awoken with a tremendous cockstand," he flexes his hips into her again to illustrate his meaning, "and it would be a shame to put it to waste."

"Is it really tremendous?" Abbie asks, giggling. "Wait, 'cockstand'?" she asks, laughing more. She never grows tired of his antiquated terminology.

Ichabod lifts his head and looks down at her. _She is incredibly beautiful._ "I believe you take my meaning just fine, Miss Mills," he says, struggling to keep a straight face. "As far as your first question, I'll leave that for you to determine."

She turns around in his arms. "One thing first though," she says, tilting her face up towards his.

"Mmm, of course," he agrees, knowing what she wants. He leans down and kisses her, finally indulging in the softness of her lips.

Abbie sighs into the kiss, both comforted and amazed by the feeling of _rightness_ that washes over her. So much so that she pulls away and looks up at him, fondly brushing his hair out of his face.

"What is it, my love?" Ichabod asks. He doesn't look concerned; merely curious.

"Nothing. Everything. Just… this. It feels…"

"Right. Like everything is as it should be," he finishes with a smile, bending his head to kiss her once more.


	11. Sexy Dream

Abbie wakes up with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. She looks frantically around the room, her eyes searching, ears perked up to listen for signs that she is not alone.

The bed is empty. The house is silent.

_He's not here._

Her breathing gradually slows to normal, but she is covered with sweat and her head scarf is askew. As soon as she realizes her hand is crammed between her legs, she quickly, guiltily pulls it free, stubbornly ignoring the ache remaining there.

The ache that _he_ left there.

_No. Not him. It was a dream. Just a dream._

_A dream about_ him _though._

 _A very detailed, thorough,_ hot _dream about him._

She flops back onto the pillow. "What the hell?"

She squirms a little, torn between returning her hand between her legs and getting up and taking a cold shower.

Honestly, she's surprised this is the first time she's had a dream like this. About him.

Crane. Her partner. Her best friend. Her very handsome, very single partner and best friend.

 _Maybe it was some kind of demon putting those thoughts into my head._ She ponders that thought a moment, weighing its merits.

"Oh, who the hell am I kidding?" Abbie mutters, the first tiny acknowledgement of months of denial. She gets out of bed, pulls the half-off scarf from her head, throws it down as though it has offended her, and stomps off to the shower.

xXx

"Ah, good morning, Lieutenant," Crane cheerily greets her when she comes stomping into the archives. "I have procured a mocha latte and cruller for you," he adds, pointing to a covered cup and donut sitting on her desk.

 _Why is he in such a good mood?_ His pleasant demeanor only puts her more on edge. The lukewarm shower – she couldn't handle a fully cold one – she took this morning did not have the desired effect. She glances at him. His hair is down, his shirt is open, his sleeves are rolled up, and he's wearing his boots.

These are all quite normal things for him. Normal, everyday things. Normal, everyday things that should not make her stomach flip and her loins ache. Or conjure images from her dream, images of him over her, under her, of his hands touching her, his hips between her thighs, his lips on her...

"Miss Mills?"

"What?" she snaps, his voice pulling her out of her thoughts. "Sorry. Um, thanks," she answers.

"Lieutenant, are you well?" he asks, suddenly concerned. She is normally only curt and snappish with _other_ people, not him.

"I'm fine," she says, still avoiding his gaze. She sits down and takes a sip of her coffee. It has cooled to the perfect temperature, as if he knew exactly what time to buy it so it would be just right for her by the time she arrived. _Damn him,_ she thinks, blaming him for what is likely a coincidence. She takes a bite of the cruller and finds it moist and tender and – damn him again – perfect.

"Forgive me, but you do not seem well," he says, marking a spot in his book with one finger.

Abbie's gaze falls on the long digit, and another image flashes across her brain. She quickly grabs her laptop and opens it, then takes another long sip of coffee. "I just didn't sleep well," she quickly says, staring at her screen.

Ichabod cocks an eyebrow, which she _just_ sees over the top of her laptop, causing another stomach flip, and glares at her laptop screen, trying desperately to remember what she was looking up the previous day.

Her mind is a scrambled mess. A scrambled mess of tangled flesh and hedonistic thoughts. About her partner. She almost stayed home today, but decided that would raise even more questions.

_The most annoying part is that I don't normally remember my dreams. And when I do, they are just flashes. Not full scenes replaying in graphic detail at inopportune times._

She decides concentrating on their research – _trying_ to concentrate on their research – is what she should do to purge the smutty thoughts from her brain.

Unfortunately, she is only too aware of the attention her partner is paying her.

Crane is understandably concerned, but isn't pressing. He knows her well enough to know that pressing will get him nowhere. He knows she will tell him in her own time, but he keeps a watchful eye, periodically glancing up at her, trying to get a handle on her unusual manner today. Usually, he can tell how she is feeling within the first ten seconds of seeing her, but today... today she is unusually closed off. Even to him.

 _She seems to be feeling guilty about something. Something she does not wish to share with me._ Her reticence stings him, especially since she has been the one to remind him more than once that they can't keep things from each other, but... somehow he knows he will eventually learn what has her so troubled.

Abbie guzzles her coffee, downing it in record time. She picks at her cruller more than she eats it. She keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, seemingly unable to get comfortable in her chair. She angrily taps at her keyboard, using much more force than usual.

"Lieut—"

"I had a dream about you, okay?" she cuts him off, speaking louder than she intends to, stubbornly keeping her face pointed at her screen. "A dream that I really _don't_ want to tell you about." He doesn't reply, and she finds herself still talking to fill the awkward silence. "You and I... we were... you know... _involved_. Um, in some... intercourse... that was... in no way... awful." _Shut up SHUT UP._

She peeks up at him to find him regarding her rather calmly, his head slightly tilted. "Oh, is that all?" he asks, maddeningly unruffled by her revelation.

She looks at him, mouth dropping open and brows furrowed, completely incredulous that he is behaving as though this is no big deal. She was expecting a lot of "Oh, dear"s and throat-clearing and finger-twitching. But he's not even _blushing_ , damn his smoldering blue eyes. "What do you mean, 'Is that all?'"

Ichabod sets his pen down on the desk, clasps his hands in front of him, and quite matter-of-factly says, "My dear Miss Mills, I have similar dreams about you on quite a regular basis. I am, in fact, rather surprised you are so rattled by something so... unsurprising as this."

"Unsurp— wait, you do?" she asks.

He chuckles once. "And here I thought _you_ were the one who was better at keeping their emotions from affecting their work." He reaches across the desk, slowly pushing the lid of her laptop closed. She keeps her eyes downcast. "Abbie," he says, his use of her first name forcing her to look at him.

Once she does, she finds she cannot look away. For the first time today, it occurs to her that maybe her dream is trying to tell her something. Trying to force her to face something she's been denying.

"One cannot control one's dreams," Ichabod continues. "And one cannot let one's dreams control him." He pauses a moment and adds, "Unless, of course, they involve a pale creature with sand pouring out of his empty eye sockets."

Abbie manages a very small smile, remembering back to when he insisted on accompanying her into her dreams to help save her life. _It seems like so long ago. It_ was _so long ago. Nearly four years. But that was when I knew he was…_ "How... how long?" she asks. "I mean, how long have you had... dreams... about me?"

His lips twitch as though he is trying to hold back a smile and his eyebrow quirks upward a minuscule amount. "Longer than I should readily admit, having been a very recently widowed man at the time," he answers.

That means he's been having dreams about her for just over a year. Her eyebrows rise and she slowly blinks, processing _that_ little nugget of information. Wondering _exactly_ what his dreams entailed. Wondering how the _hell_ he's been able to keep his composure all this time. Wondering why... why he never... said... or _did_... anything to...

_Do you really want to go there, Abbie? Maybe he's not flustered by them because he's not attracted to you. Ugh, you should have stayed home._

"It's perfectly natural, Lieutenant. Being in such close and frequent company with an attractive person..." he lightly shrugs. "Perhaps it is a... what is the phrase? Side-effect of our bond. Who knows?"

 _Yep. He's being very scientific about all of this. He's not attr... wait._ "You think I'm attractive?" she quietly asks.

"Well, yes," he answers, as though it should be obvious. "Did you not know this?"

She feels herself growing warm. "You've never said."

"You've never expressed your opinion on my attractiveness, and yet I know you find me pleasing to the eye," he counters.

"Oh, well then..." she says, her voice tinged with sarcasm at his arrogance. Deep in the recesses of her brain, she finds his arrogance somewhat attractive, but hadn't been ready to admit that either.

"Abigail," he cuts in, "you are staggeringly beautiful. Forgive me for being remiss in saying so." His voice is like rich velvet.

The sarcasm dies on her tongue and her stomach wobbles again. "Thank you," she whispers. "You... are very handsome," she says, feeling compelled to return the compliment. Then, hesitantly, she adds, "Almost fascinatingly so."

He smiles; a rare, full smile. The only thing rarer than his full smile is his full laugh, which she would love to one day see, just to witness him throwing his head back and laughing with abandon, free from care.

No. She suddenly realizes she doesn't want to see it happen. She wants to _make_ it happen. She wants to draw it from his lips herself.

"Thank you, Abbie," he says, catching her lost in thought again.

They regard one another across the desk for a minute.

"So..." she says. "Um... yeah. I suppose I should get back to..." she attempts to open her laptop, and finds herself thwarted by a large hand resting atop the lid once again.

"I don't believe our conversation has finished yet, Lieutenant," he evenly says, his voice low.

"It hasn't?" she asks, blinking at him.

"No. It hasn't." His fingers drum across the laptop once. As though pulled, Abbie's hand comes to rest atop his, her small brown one barely covering Crane's large, pale one. "You already know you are my dearest friend, Abbie," he continues, turning his hand to hold hers. "You are my guide in this time, my partner and my friend," he reiterates. "I would be lost one hundred times over were it not for you."

"I... I'd be kind of lost without you, too, Crane," she admits. She sighs. "This isn't easy for me to say, but... I think sometimes I need you as much as you need me. Maybe more."

He smiles, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. "I hold you in the highest esteem, am quite fond of you personally, and find you to be more than attractive," he ticks off a rather nice list, eyes darting between her face and their joined hands. "These things all add up to one rather clear conclusion, yes?" he quietly asks.

 _Did he just tell me he loves me?_ "I think so," she whispers.

In a flash, he stands, tugging her to her feet as he does so, and before she knows it, she is in his arms. "Allow me to illustrate more clearly then," he murmurs, then lowers his head to close his lips over hers.

It isn't what Abbie was expecting at all. She had always thought, should she and Crane ever kiss, that it would be a polite, rather chaste peck. A bit like kissing a relative. She was not expecting this onslaught of passion, his tongue slipping into her mouth like it belonged there, sliding against hers, giving her everything and taking all she is giving him.

She wasn't expecting him to be able to _kiss._

When he lifts his head, her knees are weak and the wobble in her stomach has moved decidedly lower. "Oh, wow..." she breathes, staring up at him, her mind a jumbled haze of disbelief and desire.

The corner of his lips curve upward in a mildly smug half-smile, his arms still tight around her. "Indeed," he agrees. He leans down and kisses her once more, just to get the taste of her again. "I have longed to know the feel of these lips," he murmurs, moving only enough to speak.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" she asks, pulling away.

"I did not think my advances would be welcomed," he answers. "What I mean is, I was waiting for the opportune time. When you might be receptive to them."

 _Holy hell, he really does know me better than anyone._ She lifts up on tiptoe and kisses him. "That was a good call, I think."

"Did you truly not realize I had developed deeper feelings for you?" he asks.

"I didn't realize until today that _I_ had developed deeper feelings for _you_ ," she replies.

He tuts at her. "You are a detective, Miss Mills," he teasingly scolds.

"Yes, well, sometimes people are most blind to the things closest to them," she says, defending herself.

He chuckles once, without much mirth. "I know that all too well," he dryly comments.

"Crane, I didn't mean..."

He kisses her to let her know he is not hurt by her remark. "I know you didn't," he says, nuzzling her nose with his.

His lips are still very close, and Abbie tilts her chin to capture them, finding she cannot get enough of his kisses.

"Mmm," Ichabod groans, a little surprised but quite pleased. He knew she would be passionate and responsive, but he underestimated his own reaction to her affection. He feels things beginning to stir in his trousers, and, not wishing to overwhelm her, attempts to put a little space between them.

She holds him fast, her lips still on his, even tightening her grip on him, her one hand sliding down his back to his rear. She squeezes it, pressing herself against him, wanton and demanding.

She wraps one leg around his, and he manages to lift his head to speak again. "Abbie, my heart, did you not… ease your own tension this morning after waking from your dream?" he gasps, reeling at the strength of her ardor.

"Hmm?" she murmurs, attempting to keep kissing him.

"Surely you must have, as we used to say, 'tickled your own fancy' after you awoke," he says, stubbornly evading her lips.

"No," she answers, cheeks heating at this turn the conversation has taken. She slightly loosens her grasp on him and her brows furrow as she looks at him. "Oh, my God, is _that_ what that phrase originally meant?" she asks, eyes widening.

He simply chuckles and kisses her. "No wonder you're so tightly wound," he comments. "And amorous," he adds, kissing her once more.

"I… wait, is that what _you_ do?" she asks, deciding to turn the tables back on him.

To her disappointment, he _still_ doesn't blush. "Of course. How else would I be expected to maintain my sanity in your presence?"

She steps away from him, placing her hands on her hips. "Okay, why are you not all flustered and proper about all this? Why am _I_ the one who feels awkward while _you_ are behaving like we're discussing the weather?" she demands, attempting to glare up at him.

Ichabod takes a step towards her, suddenly looking somewhat predatory. Abbie's mouth goes dry as she watches him approach, lithe and graceful yet undeniably masculine.

He snakes an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. "My dear Miss Mills," he rumbles, his voice soft and dark, "there is an entire facet of my personality you have yet to experience."

"Oh, God," she breathes, anticipation building more and more with each surprising sentence that comes out of his mouth.

He leans down and kisses her again, his kiss a passionate promise of things to come. "Oh, I do love you, Abbie," he says, gathering her close and resting his chin on top of her head. "I have waited too long to say those words."

She wraps her arms around his waist hugging him tightly. "I love you, too, Ichabod," she replies, pressing her cheek against his chest. She can feel his heart beating against her ear, and imagines it is beating for her. "Ugh, it's only morning..." she adds with a groan.

"It will be a very long day indeed," he agrees. "But I very much look forward to continuing this encounter in the privacy of either your home or mine."

xXx

After what proves to be a long, uneventful day, they return to the secluded confines of the cabin. That night, Abbie not only draws laughter from Ichabod, but she also makes him gasp, sigh, moan, and cry out her name in ecstasy. And he does the same for her.


	12. Heat Wave

"Crane," Abbie calls, cracking open the door to the cabin. "Are you in here?" She peeks inside and slowly steps in, suddenly feeling a little uncertain about her plans for the afternoon. _It seemed like a good idea when I was at home..._

"Yes, Lieutenant," Ichabod answers, appearing in the doorway to the bedroom. He is wearing trousers and a shirt, but is barefoot and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He is just finishing securing his hair up in a haphazard bun.

She drops her gaze and moves to the table. "Why aren't you using the A/C unit Frank gave you?" she asks, dropping a canvas bag and a small cooler on the table, heedless of her partner's eyes tracking their way up her legs. She stalks over to the window-mounted air conditioner and flips it on, then goes about closing the other windows.

"It is far too noisy," he absently answers. Feeling guilty, he wills his eyes to look at her face. "Miss Mills, is everything all right?" he asks, taking a cautious step forward. Her hair is up, which is also unusual. He likes it up; it shows off her long, lovely neck. _Of course she always looks wonderful._

She turns the dial to _Low_ so the A/C isn't so loud _._ "Apart from sweating my ass off, I'm fine, why?" she asks, hoping he didn't see how her eyes roved over him when he appeared in the doorway.

"You seem to have forgotten your trousers," he says, his eyes involuntarily dropping to gaze upon her supple thighs once more. _I cannot stop staring._

"I thought we'd go swimming," she replies, as if that explains everything.

"Swi...?"

"Well, maybe not _actually_ swimming. That's too much like exercise," Abbie clarifies. She turns to face him, and he can see the front of the strange garment she is wearing. It looks like a long, sleeveless hoodie. She puts her hands on her hips, then drops them, unconsciously tugging at the hem of her swim cover. "It's as hot as Satan's armpit out there, and you live on a lake. I see no reason why we shouldn't take advantage of the situation." She ignores the hammering of her heart at the thought of being out there, scantily clad. With _him._

"I... I have no garments for swimming," he feebly protests. It's been four years since he woke in the 21st Century. He is well acquainted with what the current fashions for swimwear are, but has resisted acquiring a pair of _trunks_ , or worse still, _Speedos._ However, he can see the straps of Abbie's black and white suit peeking above the neckline of her swim cover and it intrigues him. Quite a lot.

Abbie reaches into her bag and throws a wad of material at Crane. He straightens it out and holds up a pair of dark blue swim trunks. It has a red waistband and there are red and white concentric circles around a large white star on one leg.

"Captain America. Very droll, Lieutenant," he says, trying not to smile. In truth, he rather likes them. _Of course she would find the perfect ones._

"Hey, be glad I resisted the pair that was red and white striped on one leg and blue with white stars on the other," she says. "Go change."

He knows resisting will get him nowhere, so he retreats back to the bedroom.

She takes a moment to gather her wits, then pulls a tube of SPF 50 from her bag, which she bought especially for him. She's seen his face and arms get burned enough times to know that he could probably get a sunburn from standing too close to an unshaded lightbulb. She sets it on the table and heads to the kitchen to see if he has anything snack-worthy they can bring to the lake.

She is just putting some grapes in the cooler on top of the beers when he emerges.

"I feel woefully underdressed," he announces.

Abbie is temporarily speechless. He looks better than she was expecting. She knew he'd look good, that was never in question. He's fit. She long ago made peace with the fact that she finds him attractive.

She just hasn't ever seen this much of him before.

"You have nice legs," she dumbly comments. She knew they weren't scrawny, but they are quite muscular. _Very nice legs, indeed._

He looks down at them. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Um, so do you."

Now she looks down at hers. "Thanks." She remembers the sunblock, and quickly grabs it. "Come here. We need to put this on you so you don't burn to a crisp."

He walks over. "What about you?" he asks. As much as he would love to touch every bit of her skin, he is wary of performing such an intimate task for her. He's wary of her doing so for him, in fact.

"Jenny helped me with mine before I left," she said. "I invited her along, but she chose to stay in the air-conditioned comfort of the house with a bottle of wine." He raises a skeptical eyebrow, and she laughs. "I know. Hawley's back in town, so if she stays home, she _won't_ be alone. Um, this might be cold," she warns, moving behind him as she rubs the sunblock between her hands.

He only jumps a little, then relaxes, concentrating instead on the feel of her small hands rubbing his skin. It starts feeling too nice, and he realizes he should not – _can_ not, for his own sanity – allow her to rub his chest like that. He grabs the tube and squirts some into his palm.

 _Oh, good._ The prospect of applying sunscreen to more than just his back is too enticing, so she is relieved he thought of doing it himself. She hopes he doesn't notice her hands are shaking a little as she spreads the lotion over his surprisingly broad back, trying not to notice the warmth of his skin and the flat muscles moving beneath it as he moves his arms. She gnaws at her bottom lip at the thought of running her hands over his pecs, his taut, flat stomach, tracing the intriguing ridge of his scar...

"Make sure you get your face. Especially your forehead," she says, snapping herself back to reality. _Get it together._

"Are you implying that my forehead is large?" he asks, giving her his trademark sideways-and-downward look.

She moves around in front of him rubbing her hands together. "I'm not implying it," she answers, reaching up to rub in a spot of sunblock that is still showing on his neck, "I'm straight up saying it. You've got a big ol' forehead and we don't want it to burn. _Again._ "

"Yes, I remember well, and I assure you I made certain my gargantuan forehead has been adequately covered," Ichabod says. "You may need a new tube of sunblock, however," he adds with a sly smile.

Abbie laughs, absently patting his chest out of habit. She jerks her hand away with a soft, "Oh," when she feels warm skin and soft, springy chest hair instead of the linen or wool she is accustomed to encountering. "Sorry. Grab the cooler," she quickly says, reaching for the bag.

He also snatches the bag before she can take it, and carries both items to the small dock leading out over the lake. There is no beach, but there is a dock and rowboat that Corbin used for fishing. They won't need the boat today, but the dock will be a handy place to set their things, especially because half of it is shaded by the large trees growing nearby.

Crane walks behind her, watching the sway of her hips, the firm muscles of her legs, allowing himself the indulgence to unlock some the thoughts he's been having about her for the past few months. About them. Wondering if he'll ever get the opportunity to confess his feelings.

Wondering if he will get the opportunity today.

She steps onto the dock and turns to see him stepping up right behind her. He sets the bag and cooler down. "What is in the cooling case?" he asks, looking for neutral conversation to draw his thoughts back in the right direction.

"Beer. Water. And some grapes I found in your fridge."

"Ah. Excellent," he answers, watching as she digs into the bag and pulls out two plush beach towels. She passes him a red one and keeps the dove gray one for herself.

She slides her feet out of her flip flops and turns to face the water, suddenly shy of removing her swim cover with him standing _right there_ watching. She's not really worried about how she looks; she works very hard to keep herself in shape. She simply doesn't want it to look like she's undressing _for_ him. She shrugs out of the cover, and when she turns back to drop it in the bag, she sees he's respectfully averted his gaze. _Of course._

Abbie walks down to the end of the dock with her towel, sets the towel down, and sits on it, dipping her feet in the water. It feels perfect. Not too cold.

Ichabod takes another moment to admire her before joining her. Just a moment. _I am definitely not staring. But I definitely was not prepared for her swimming attire to be in two separate, very small pieces._ He drops his towel beside hers. "May I join you?"

She pats the space beside her, then straightens his towel a little. His feet dip much further into the water. "It's nice," she says. "The water." _Awkward. Why is it awkward?_

_Couldn't possibly be because we're both nearly naked and it's really reminding me of how attracted to him I am._

He nods. "The blazing heat of the sun has warmed the lake to quite a pleasant temperature," he absently assesses. They fall silent for a short time, listening to the lap of the water against the dock. The occasional birdsong. Crane clears his throat, making a decision. "Miss Mills, I simply must say that you look..." he pauses, finally turning to face her, searching for the correct word. She looks up at him, ready for him to go on a diatribe about propriety and exposed skin, but he simply stares back down and says, "Exquisite. You are a... a compact goddess, Abbie." His voice is low and soft, and it's not doing anything to cool her off.

"Th-thank you," she replies, stunned. She looks down at her small, brown feet next to his large, pale ones, then up at his face. He's gazing down at her, his face bearing an expression she's never seen, and her heart starts beating faster. "Crane? What's on your mind?"

"This," he says, leaning down and catching her lips in a kiss.

The floodgates open.

Her response is immediate and enthusiastic, drawing a small surprised noise from Crane's throat. He recovers quickly, meeting her questing tongue with his as his hand comes into contact with the skin on her back. He pulls her closer, but their side-by-side position on the end of the dock proves inconvenient.

"Abbie," he breathes, pulling away. "I... you... we..." he stammers, stunned at how eagerly she reciprocated.

She smiles at him, then, without a word, pushes off of the dock and into the lake. It is about four feet deep where she lands, and she bends her knees to allow the water to cool her shoulders and neck, carefully keeping her head dry. "Are you coming in, or what?" she asks.

He plops into the water, pulling her into his arms as soon as he is close enough, and begins moving into deeper water. She winds her arms up around his neck, hanging on.

"Taking me for a ride, Captain?" she asks, tightening her grasp and wrapping her legs around his waist when she can no longer easily touch the bottom.

He stops walking, kisses her, and murmurs, "Perhaps later, Lieutenant."

Abbie's eyes widen in shock, and she bursts forth in incredulous laughter. _Did he seriously just make a lewd joke?_

"Your laughter is wonderful to hear," he says, fondly smiling down at her. They are well into the lake, the water up to Crane's shoulders, the sun beating down on their heads.

"I was _not_ expecting you to have a dirty mind," she says, still chuckling.

"Bawdy jokes are not—"

"Not a new invention, yeah, I know," she finishes, reaching up with one hand to tuck an escaped tendril of hair behind his ear. "You should have let me put your hair up. I would do it so it would _stay_."

"I have no doubt of that," he agrees. He pecks her lips, then grasps her sides and pulls her away from himself a little to spin her around in the water. "Even the very hairs on my head would obey your slightest command, for every bit of me is completely yours."

She blinks, looping her arms around his neck again, but leans back slightly, studying his face. "That's a pretty big statement there."

He leans forward and kisses her. It is a short kiss, but not lacking in feeling. "It is not big enough," he counters. "Forgive me if I am overwhelming you, but I have kept these feelings, these words, bottled up for far longer than I intended. We've scarcely had a moment to call our own lately, but believe me when I say I have been waiting for this moment."

She exhales, dropping her head onto his shoulder, remembering moments, just tiny moments, when things would get... heated? intense?... between them. The brush of a hand that may or may not have been accidental, a hug held a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary after a particularly intense battle, a stolen glance that turns into a stare, caught by the other. "We have been kind of... dancing around the inevitable, haven't we?" she asks. "Well, maybe not _inevitable._ I'd like to think that this... whatever this is between us... is by our choosing, not part of the whole Witness package."

He turns his head to look down at her, studying her for a few moments. " _Do_ you choose me, Abbie?" he asks.

She lifts her head and stares at him for the longest five seconds of Crane's unique life. "I do, Ichabod," she finally says.

He nods once, an abrupt, decisive gesture. "Then it is our choice." He kisses her, allowing his hands to explore her back beneath the cool water a little, but mindfully keeping them above her rear. His fingers skim the edge of her bikini bottom once, but that is as far as he ventures. "After all, mankind was given free will," he says after he lifts his head.

"I don't know if we exactly fall into the same category as the rest of mankind anymore," she counters.

"Ah, but God also granted the angels free will; why would he not do the same for us?"

"Ever hear of Lucifer?" she asks, unable to keep the smile from her face. She has grown to love verbally sparring with him, and doing so while wrapped around him and trading kisses is even more enjoyable.

This time, it is Ichabod who laughs. "I was thinking more of your friend Orion," he says, earning himself a face full of water. "Oh!" he sputters, then loosens his grip on her, intending to let her fall.

Abbie stubbornly clings to him. "Orion hadn't _fallen_ , he was just..."

"I believe the phrase for which you are searching is 'bat-shit crazy'," he suggests, wrapping his arms around her again.

"You've been talking to Jenny too much," she chuckles.

He simply shrugs, his expression changing back to the soft, fond one with which he gazed upon her just before. "Speaking of talk, I believe we have some things to discuss, my heart," he says.

She leans closer, kisses him thoroughly, and says, "Later." Then, she pushes off of him, swimming backwards, her head still carefully kept above the water.

xXx

They splash around a bit; they swim a bit. Here and there they spot small fish darting away from them as they get too close. Crane dives down and brings up interesting rocks, which they look at before flinging them as far as they can. He asks her if she has an aversion to dunking her head under the water, and she admits that it's partially because of her hair but mostly due to her near-death experience in the library. "I've found I really don't have any desire to have my head under water anymore," she says with a small shrug. "Looks like we've both developed new phobias."

After they've sufficiently cooled down, they return to the dock, spreading out their towels. Abbie lies down on her stomach, resting her head on her arms. Crane sits upright, cross-legged, his long hair dripping and curling around his face. The elastic that was holding his poorly-made bun is now around Abbie's wrist.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Mmm, yes," she says, turning her head to look at him.

He reaches for the cooler, pulling it over and opening it. He withdraws the grapes and two beers, setting them between their towels.

"Water first," she says. "Don't want to get dehydrated."

"As you command," he answers, grabbing two bottles of water. He settles back onto his towel, indulgently letting his eyes rove over her lithe form.

"I can feel you staring at me," she says without looking at him.

"Your derrière is a work of art, Miss Mills," he comments.

She falls to laughter again, dropping her head so her face is buried in her arms. _At least he didn't call it a 'double jug'._ "Is that so?" she asks, moving to sit up. She grabs her bottle of water and takes a long drink.

"Indeed it is," Crane confirms, watching her throat as she drinks. "I was in earnest before with my earlier comment. If God did intend for his Witnesses to be entwined in _this_ way, He certainly placed the odds in my favor. I found you beautiful the first moment I saw you, confused though I was."

Abbie shyly smiles and looks down, unused to such frequent and flowery praise. "Don't sell yourself short, Crane. You're a very handsome man, and you are one of only a small handful of true gentlemen left on this planet. At least it seems that way most days. Surely you must see that the looks you get aren't always... puzzled. Especially now that people around here have gotten used to your eccentricities." She pauses, biting her lower lip. "You're pretty sexy actually."

His eyebrows rise and he smiles, reaching down to the bunch of grapes. He plucks one from the bunch and feeds it to her, then takes another for himself. "Thank you, Abbie. I care only for your opinion, of course. The fact that Miss Wendy simpers at me each time I pass her desk or Miss Maddie always manages to be our waitress when we go to the diner means very little to me."

"Oh, so you _have_ noticed!" she exclaims, laughing. She thinks about poor Caroline and her crush on Crane, but decides not to mention it. He has made peace with her death, but she knows, deep down, he still feels responsible for it.

"I have eyes," he replies, feeding her another grape. "And they have been only for you for the past several months."

She looks away, over the lake, mulling over this change in their relationship. _It's nice. More than nice. It's wonderful. I have been wanting him, too. And when his lips are on mine, when I'm in his arms, I don't think about the scary parts of it. He may leave. He may_ die. _He may—_

"Abbie." His soft voice and gentle hand on her chin brings her back. "I am not going anywhere. Not willingly, at any rate. You remember my promise after my driving lesson, yes?"

"We are not fated to… bury one another. Something like that," she mutters, not the least bit surprised he was just reading her mind.

"Close enough," he says. "We live together, we fight together, we die together. _Together_."

She nods and looks down at her hands, which are picking the label off of her water bottle.

"I love you, Abigail. You are my very heartbeat and the keeper of my soul," he softly intones, his long fingers caressing her cheek again, coaxing her to face him.

Her eyes are shining with tears as he leans in to kiss her. She moves closer, knocking over the still-closed beer bottles between them as she lands on his lap, facing him, her legs around his waist, kissing him until all the bottled-up emotions within her flow freely.

Kissing him, hoping to convey the words that have stuck in her throat. When he holds her tighter, his large hands splaying on her back, she knows he understands.

xXx

She whispers the words later, into the safety of the darkness, in his bed, wrapped in his arms, his breathing slow and even behind her. She whispers it, thinking him asleep, but when he tightens his hold on her and kisses the crown of her head, she knows he heard it, and is surprised to find that she isn't scared. Not with him.


	13. Snowed In

"This is definitely not normal," Abbie says, looking out of the window.

"What is going on now?" Crane asks, stepping over to join her. He stands close behind her, looking out over the top of her head, one hand casually landing on her shoulder.

"I mean, we've had occasional late snow before... but this... I would hardly call this a 'spring snow'," she says, gesturing to the blizzard conditions outside. She turns her head and looks up at him. "It's April 27, Crane. I have tulips coming up. It looks like _January_ out there right now."

"Hmm." He frowns at the snow, almost as if he thinks he can glower it away. "How long have we been here?"

Abbie looks at her watch. "Two hours." She pats his chest and he steps aside, letting her pass. "God, I hate this place."

They were forced to return to Fredericks Manor to look for a hidden room that is reportedly holding some key information for them. So far, they've found little more than spider webs and what is left of Henry's creepy scale model of the town.

"Any fond memories I had of this once-great manor have been thoroughly sullied by the events of recent years," Ichabod observes, sweeping the beam of his flashlight through the room, hoping to spot something new. "Between that... tree beast and the fiasco with Henry and Katrina, I should like nothing more than to see this place set alight." His words are harsh, but there is no real fire behind them. Not anymore.

Abbie has heard him say as much on other occasions (and has agreed with him every time), so she isn't troubled hearing them now. Henry and Katrina died two years ago, and Crane has mourned, forgiven, and moved on. Beyond the occasional snide remark, usually brought on by some physical reminder of their existence, they are rarely mentioned.

"Wouldn't be a bad idea right now," she agrees, pulling the collar of her coat around her neck. It is growing colder and darker by the minute. "Why did you ask how long we've been here?"

"Because there is far too much snow outside for the amount of time it has been falling," he explains. "I fear you are correct, as usual. This is decidedly not normal."

Abbie looks out of the window again, and can barely see her truck. "Let's keep looking for as long as we can." She doesn't even want to entertain the thought of not being able to drive home in this.

Crane catches the unspoken concern in her statement, and materializes behind her again. "I have every confidence you will be able to navigate your vehicle through this storm, Lieutenant," he says, placing both hands on her shoulders and giving her a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm glad you do," she replies, leaning back against him for just a second.

"You are tired," he observes.

She sighs, turns, and looks up at him. "So are you. Neither of us got much sleep last night." She switches her flashlight on. "Let's get back to the search. This place have a basement?"

"I believe there is a root cellar," he says.

"And I'm sure it's a lovely space, complete with wall-to-wall dirt," she dryly comments. "Lead the way."

xXx

By the time they find the books, which were, of course, in a hidden room off the root cellar, it is nearly pitch black outside and the temperature has significantly dropped.

The root cellar itself proved a trial for Crane, and not just because of its low ceiling. His claustrophobia has only grown more acute as the years have gone on, and he spent most of his time in the small underground chamber hanging back on a set of stairs so steep they might be better described as a "ladder". When Abbie returned, needing his help opening the heavy stone door, he kept his bearing carefully stoic, but held tightly to her hand as they walked across the dark room.

Ichabod sets the heavy books on the table with a decisive thud. "I am sorry I was not more hel—"

Abbie's raised hand stops his apology. "Free pass, remember?" she says, walking over and pulling him into a brief, reassuring hug. There are two things that are off-limits for teasing, criticism, or blame: Crane's claustrophobia and Abbie's chiroptophobia. If there is a small space, Crane does not have to go in; if there are bats, Abbie can stay away. If it is unavoidable, they support their partner unquestioningly and without judgment.

He nods once, then gives her a small, weak smile. "I fear the snow has grown more perilous," he says, switching topics as he looks towards the window again.

"Great. Well, we have to try," she replies, reaching for the door. She turns the knob and pulls. Nothing. The door won't open. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Of course..." he sighs. "Shall I try?"

"Be my guest, but I doubt it'll work," she says, stepping aside.

He tries the door, pulling with all his might. The door sticks tight.

"All right. We are _not_ going to freeze to death in this reject from _The Amityville Horror_ ," Abbie declares, pulling her phone out of her pocket. "No service. Perfect."

Truly a man of the 21st Century, Crane retrieves his phone and checks it as well, though his phone is on the same account as hers and would therefore have the exact same service. "Indeed," he agrees. "I assume 'Amityville' is another film I have yet to see?"

"Yeah, but you don't need to see that one. Gave me nightmares for weeks," she absently says, walking along the outside walls, hoping for even one bar. She curses under her breath and pockets her phone. "You don't suppose Henry left any blankets around here, do you?"

"If he did, I would not trust them to not transform into a writhing mass of vipers," he answers. "I think... our best bet is to try and stay warm and hope the door will open come morning."

"Or that Jenny comes looking for us," she says, nodding as she speaks. "Though with this weather, we may be stuck till morning anyway." She notices she can see their breath when they speak, and it causes her to wrap her arms around herself, trying to stay warm. "Do you think we can risk starting a fire?" she asks, glancing at the empty fireplace

His eyes scan the empty room. "If you can find something to use as fuel and something with which to ignite it..."

"Ugh, yeah, you're right." She sighs. "It's times like this I wish I hadn't given up smoking," she mutters under her breath.

"If I had some flint and steel, of course," he comments, slightly smiling.

"Oh, don't start in with that again," she says, actually chuckling. "Even though I wish you did have some. I wouldn't be above tearing up floorboards or that bannister."

"Nor I," Crane sighs, looking around again.

Abbie knows he is seeing this place as it once was, back in its former glory. She caught a glimpse of that herself, though she only really got to see the kitchens in back. "Hey," she quietly prompts, touching his arm. "Let's find a place to settle in and you can tell me what this room used to look like," she suggests.

"All right," he agrees.

They choose a spot against an interior wall, in sight of the front door so they can keep watch, hoping that the only being that crosses the threshold is Jenny. Crane sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, and Abbie slides down beside him.

"We will have to sit close together to conserve heat," he recommends, scooting closer to her at the same time she moves towards him.

"You're still pretty warm," she comments, resisting the sudden urge to crawl onto his lap and curl up against him.

"I generally am, yes," he agrees. He can feel her trying not to shiver beside him. "But you are nearly frozen already. Must be your small stature. Here." He begins taking his coat off.

"You need your coat," she protests, but falls silent again when he pulls her flush against his side, drapes the long garment over both of them, and wraps his arm around her. "Thank you," she quietly says. The ancient coat has survived as well as her partner has. It is a bit worn in several places, and he has mended it several times, but it has proven nearly bulletproof. Abbie has taken it to her dry cleaner a few times, where it has been given the due respect it deserves, thanks to her long-standing relationship with the family who runs the place. _It smells good. It smells like him._

"Please, Abbie, do not be shy, as they say. I cannot have you catching a chill or worse," Ichabod says, tucking the coat around her and reaching for her hands beneath the coat, easily clasping both of hers in one of his.

She tucks her legs up and cuddles against him, trying to get closer. "Are you going to tell me about this place or what?" she asks. Her head falls against his shoulder. He doesn't seem to mind, so she leaves it there.

"I wish you could have seen it," he says. "It was... opulent. Mr. Fredericks had vast amounts of wealth, and while he spared no expense, he did not flaunt his largesse..."

He goes on to describe the house and its inhabitants with detail only someone with an eidetic memory can achieve, and Abbie closes her eyes, easily picturing it, letting the velvety timbre of her partner's voice wash over her while his warm hand absentmindedly rubs hers, keeping the blood flowing.

"And now... it is merely a shell. A tattered, rat-ridden, haunted shell of its former self. I am honestly surprised it has been allowed to remain standing in its current condition," Crane concludes.

"It's probably protected as a registered historical site," she muses, opening her eyes. "But everyone's afraid to go near this place, so it's fallen into disrepair."

"If we could exorcise the demons from this house... it could be restored. Or at least made habitable again," he says. Then he sighs. "Of course, that would require a fair amount of capital."

"Finding money to restore this place would be easier than trying to... de-haunt it," she says. As if on cue, the wind picks up, and the walls seem to groan in response. "Sorry," she calls, addressing the house. "Geez. Touchy."

Crane chuckles, then shifts slightly, trying to ease the ache growing in his backside. The floorboards beneath him are hard and unforgiving.

Abbie adjusts her position as well, stretching her legs out once again, and they fall into a companionable silence for some time. She checks the time on her phone. It's grown late, but she knows it is still going to be a very long night.

At length, she speaks again. "Would you go back? If you could, would you go back to 1781?"

He takes a second before answering. "Well, it's a complicated issue. Knowing what I know now, experiencing all the wonders this century has to offer... I don't think I would."

She had a feeling that would be his answer. She considers a follow-up, wondering if he would return if he could go back to before Abraham's turn and perhaps make different choices, but decides that is much too deep for this night. "Yeah, I think you belong here," she says instead. "Especially with all that has happened, with all the truth that you now know."

"Not only that, but I would miss you far too much," he replies. "You and Miss Jenny, of course," he quickly adds.

He falls silent for a long moment, but she can tell he is pondering something important. She can practically hear the wheels turning in his head; feel the weight of his thoughts on her shoulders.

"Abbie," he finally says, "you once said that a romantic relationship would be a complication you do not need."

"I did," she replies, slightly wary of where this train of thought will take them. Her instincts are telling her to get up and move away from him, to flee and avoid whatever he is about to say, but she stays, and not only because he is the only source of warmth in the room.

He hesitates before cautiously venturing, "Do you still feel this way?"

She nods, not meeting his gaze. Unable to look up at him, though she can feel his eyes on her. "It would just be... too difficult to keep those worlds separate," she answers, actually having given this subject a fair amount of thought. "Needing to keep secrets, hide things... straight-up _lie_. Not being able to fully share myself. It wouldn't be fair to him."

Ichabod knows this is only a half truth. He knows she has difficulty completely opening herself to other people. While he wears his heart on his sleeve, his partner is often a closed book. He considers himself fortunate that he knows her as well as he does, that she has allowed him in as far as she has. He clears his throat, almost afraid to ask his next question, but knowing he needs to get it out before he is crushed under the weight of not knowing. "What if... what if the person was already a part of that world?" he cautiously asks.

"What are you saying, Crane?" She finally looks up at him, and nearly gasps at the tenderness of his expression as he looks down at her. She's never seen him look at anyone that way, not even when he was reunited with Katrina.

"I am simply wondering if your opinion on the matter would differ if the person wishing to court you was already fully aware of all this, already knew all the secrets... someone from whom you do not _need_ to keep anything hidden," he explains. His thumb caresses her hand, tenderly this time, helping to make his point.

Abbie would be lying to herself if she said she'd never considered the possibility. Heck, she's even given it serious thought on one or two occasions, usually late at night, when sleep was evading her. "I... guess that could work..." she allows, unable to come up with a valid argument against it other than "I'm scared shitless of losing you in any way."

He raises an eyebrow. "You 'guess'?" he asks. He is not offended by her vague reply. Knowing her cautious nature in this area, he expected it.

She sighs, looking down. "Sorry. I..." she stops and looks back up at him. "Just so we're clear, you're talking about yourself, right?"

He nods. "I have been giving the matter quite a lot of thought." Realizing how sterile that sounds, he quickly adds, "That is to say, you seem to be constantly in my thoughts, Abbie, and often in a rather... unprofessional way." _Not much better._ "My feelings for you have grown quite strong, and I wish to pursue a relationship with you beyond that of being friends and partners." He frowns. "This is not coming out as... romantically as I had envisioned."

Despite her thumping heart (Excitement? Panic?), Abbie laughs. It is a sweet, musical laugh, not mocking or unkind in any way. "I know what you're trying to say," she says, resting her head on his shoulder again. "You're... trying to let me know how you feel without scaring me away," she quietly says.

"Yes." He pauses a moment before asking, "Is it too much to hope for at this juncture to receive a more concrete answer than 'I guess that could work'?" When she hesitates, he presses on. "It is not my wish to push you into saying anything you do not want to say, I promise. I simply…" he exhales, looking down at the top of her head, "I have already become quite smitten with you, Abbie, and I feel I should confess my feelings because it will not be long before I am completely, irrevocably in love with you."

She looks up at him, eyes wide. "You are?"

"Of course I am. How could I not be, spending every waking moment in your presence? You are a wonder and a gift." He states these things as though they are the most obvious statements in the world.

"Ichabod, I…" she reaches up and touches his cheek, her fingers exploring the texture of his beard. Looking up into his blue eyes, she makes a decision. "We can try." He smiles, and she adds, "But we have to promise that if it doesn't work out for us that we won't let it get weird. There is simply too much at stake for us to wind up hating one another."

"I do not know why you think we could ever hate each other—"

"Just past experience, that's all," she explains with a slight frown.

"Abbie. I am not those other men." He says it with such confidence, such assurance, that she believes him. "We are friends now. We will always be friends, even if we are also romantically linked. And if we find we are not compatible as... lovers, we will continue to be friends. I do not believe God would select two people who hate one another to be His Witnesses."

She nods, dropping her eyes but not her hand. His beard is soft and strangely fascinating to touch. "I promise," she says, looking back up.

"I also promise," he replies. His eyebrow twitches. "Shall we seal this accord?" he asks, his voice a low rumble as his fingers touch her chin and tilt her face up to his.

"Somehow I don't think you mean to shake my hand," she says.

"No." His lips brush hers once, then connect more fully, but still softly, in a brief kiss.

"That was nice," Abbie admits.

"I am pleased you think so," Ichabod responds.

She snuggles in against him again, somehow more comfortable sharing space with him now. "I have thought about it," she says. "The possibility. Of us being... _us._ "

"Have you now?" he asks, intrigued.

"I thought I should tell you. Since we aren't in the habit of keeping things from each other."

"I was keeping this from you for some time, and it very nearly killed me," he says with a small chuckle.

She laughs with him. "See, that's what you get."

"Indeed," he agrees. "I must say I am surprised you didn't suspect. I am generally not very good at concealing my emotions. As you are well aware."

She snorts another laugh. "Well, one often only sees what one _wants_ to see," she says. "The signs were probably there, but I wasn't willing to notice them." She thinks back, even to earlier this evening. The way he was ever-mindful of her safety, always making certain he knew where she was. The way he kept calling her "Abbie". The way his hand casually rested on her shoulders at the window, even giving them a gentle squeeze. _He's very tactile, but he doesn't generally touch other people. However, he doesn't have any issue touching me, even in the most casual ways._

"I'm certain they were," he says, nodding. He leans his head back against the wall.

"How were you a spy, exactly?" she asks. He laughs again.

"Things were different then."

"Different how?"

" _You_ were not there."

xXx

The jarring sound of a door being kicked in jolts them from their slumber. Abbie lifts her head from Crane's chest and blinks at the bright sunlight coming through the door.

"What the hell?" Jenny asks, mindfully blocking the door open with a large boulder. "Why are you guys still here?" She looks across the large parlor and sees her sister and Crane huddled together under his coat. Looking very cozy.

"There was a blizzard. We were stuck," Abbie explains, standing. "Oh, ow," she groans.

Crane also stiffly makes his way to his feet. "Yes, we were trapped here by the sto... Abbie..." He points to the door, to the scene outside.

It is a beautiful, sunny spring day. No sign of snow in sight.

"Blizzard?" Jenny asks, looking back and forth between them. She took note of Crane calling her sister "Abbie", and it only adds to her confusion, having never heard him address her as such. She shakes her head. _Think about that later._ "It's already 60 degrees out." She sighs. "This house sucks."

"Well said, Miss Jenny," Crane agrees, bending to pick up his coat, which he drapes over his arm.

"At least we didn't freeze to death," Abbie says. " _And_ we found the books."

"Good, because if you hadn't I was ready to put a torch to this place," Jenny says. _Something happened between them last night, I know it._ She finds herself scanning their clothing for any signs of dishevelment: missed buttons, zippers left down, shirts inside out. She is a little disappointed when she finds none.

Abbie and Crane share a knowing look for a moment before Abbie chuckles. "Let's get the hell out of here before it makes us see... you know, I'm not even going to suggest anything because I don't want to give this fool place any ideas."

"Wise choice," Crane agrees, lifting the books from the table.

"Choose and perish," Jenny says in a gravelly voice.

"Huh?" Abbie asks, absently looping her hand into the crook of her partner's elbow as they walk out of the house. "Oh," she laughs. "Choose the form of the Destructor," she says, using the same scratchy voice as her sister.

Jenny looks up as they approach the cars. "I don't see any giant marshmallow men, so I think we're good."

"Is this another movie I have yet to experience?" Crane asks, opening the door for Abbie.

She takes his offered hand and climbs in as Jenny looks on, growing more and more puzzled. _I didn't see any tells, but... they_ are _awfully... touchy-feely this morning. Did they...? Nah. No, they wouldn't. Would they?_ "Yeah. _Ghostbusters._ You'll love it," Jenny explains, heading to her own vehicle.

"You said that about _The Patriot_ ," he reminds her with a cocked eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe that wasn't the best idea," Jenny concedes. "But this one isn't supposed to be realistic. Have Abbie tell you about it in the car." She waves once, then climbs into her truck.

Just as Crane is sliding into the passenger seat, Abbie gets a text. _What happened between the two of you in there? ;)_ She looks over at her younger sister, who is giving her a very pointed look from the driver's seat.

_Nothing and everything. I'll tell you later._


	14. Sex Pollen

"Oh, shit, Crane!" Abbie gasps, her fingers tightening in his hair.

Ichabod is relentlessly pounding into her, his trousers around his still-booted ankles, his hands gripping his partner's beautifully rounded backside as he roughly takes her against the wall in a corner of the Archives. He kisses a hot, hungry path from her breasts back to her lips. "Abbie... oh, I lo—"

"Don't you dare say it," she hisses, deliberately moving her face to admonishingly nip his lower lip, "not now... not like this..." She moves his head, directing his lips to her neck, where he obligingly begins sucking at her skin, even biting. "Ohhh... no declarations... just... right _there_ , yes... just... _don't... stop!_ "

"Unh... I don't think I could... even if I wanted... uh... to," he grunts, approaching mindlessness for the first time in his disjointed life.

She clutches his head, his shoulders, clinging to him, her legs wrapped around his waist. Her jeans and panties are still dangling from one leg, her bra is almost painfully askew, and her shirt is... somewhere.

xXx

-Two Hours Earlier-

"Well, that was a wild goose chase," Abbie says, plunking down into the driver's seat of her SUV. She looks over at Crane. "I hate it when anonymous tips turn up empty."

"Indeed, it is rather frustrating," he agrees. "This barn yielded absolutely nothing."

"Nothing except a weird stink and a lot of dust," she mutters, starting the car.

Crane sneezes, as if on cue.

"Bless you," Abbie automatically replies. "You're not getting sick again, are you?"

"I do not think so," he answers. "Likely the dust in the barn, as you have said. Funny, it has never troubled me before."

"Must be a new strain of 21st century dust," she jokes.

"You may be more correct than you realize, Miss Mills," he says, not playing along at all, as usual. "Dust is comprised of any number of particles – tiny bits of dirt, dead skin, even insect parts or entire, nearly microscopic ins—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, dust is constantly being updated. Thank you, Mr. Wizard," she decides to cut him off before he gets too graphic. In truth, she enjoys his little tirades, but that doesn't necessarily mean she wants to hear an entire dissertation on the ingredients of dust.

"Just when I think I've heard the last baffling 'pop culture' reference from your lips, you spout forth another," Crane says. She smiles triumphantly, and he takes a moment to appreciate the rare sight.

"I've got over 200 years of pop culture to work with – with which to work, excuse me," she replies, chuckling at how he beamed when she corrected her grammar. Then, _she_ sneezes.

"God bless you, Lieutenant," he says.

"Thanks. Ugh, I can't get that smell out of my nose."

xXx

"Oh! Yes!" Abbie gasps, kicking him with her heel, prompting for more. "Just... oh... mmm... so close..." She feels ready to burst; ready to explode into a million stars.

Crane happily – almost joyfully – obliges, increasing his efforts until finally, _finally,_ she comes with a throaty, wordless shout, unknowingly pulling his hair with one hand while she digs the nails of her other hand into his shoulder.

He had been teetering on the brink for some time, but somehow he knows he can't finish until she does. He plummets on the tail end of her orgasm, his muscles taut, holding her as close as he can as his shaft pulses again and again as he finishes. "Good Lord," he sighs, relaxing.

After a few moments, he loosens his hold on her enough to kiss her swollen lips.

xXx

-One Hour Earlier-

Crane shifts in his seat. Again.

Since they've returned, Abbie has been uncharacteristically fidgety, seated across from him. And her partner has noticed _every_ movement. Every twitch, sigh, tap, scratch, and blink has been cataloged by his eidetic memory.

But rather than being unperturbed or, worse, annoyed by her restlessness, he finds he is intrigued by it. Fascinated. _Attracted to it._ To her. So much so that it is causing a potentially embarrassing situation in his trousers.

She stretches rather sinuously and he grits his teeth, his eyes locked on her bosom. _Snap out of it, man. Are you an adolescent?_

Abbie feels his eyes on her as she stretches, and it does nothing to ease the ache between her legs. She can't remember the last time she was this turned on. _No, horny. You're horny._ All of her fidgeting has been a device to distract herself, to keep her mind off of the attractive man seated across from her. To keep her from crawling over – or under – the table and just _climbing_ him.

"I... I'll be right back," she says, suddenly standing. She nearly knocks over her chair in the process.

Crane starts to stand, the noise from the chair startling him. "Are you all right?" he asks. He squirms in his seat again, clutching the arms of his chair to keep from grabbing himself in response to seeing the curve of her hips as well. _Has she always been this gorgeous, this lushly feminine, all curves and soft skin?_ He realizes in a jolt that she _has_ , in fact been this beautiful all along, but he only allowed himself to acknowledge how amazingly wonderful his partner is during what he previously considered to be moments of weakness. _What a fool I have been to deny.._.

"Yeah... _you_ all right?" she asks, walking closer to him. "You kind of looked like you were going to stand, then... oh." She gets close enough and cannot help noticing the disposition of his trousers.

He moves his chair closer to the table. "A-apologies, Miss Mills... I do not know..." he stammers, mortified. "This does not normally..."

"Oh, my God, I know," she says, sounding very relieved. She moves her hips, almost like a small child who needs to use the bathroom, but slower, more sensually. "I'm..."

He looks up at her. "Do you think perhaps there _was_ something in that barn?"

She looks up, wide-eyed, realizing she was staring at the tent in his lap. "Like... some kind of... sex whammy?"

He nods, cheeks red, pupils dilated. He unconsciously licks his lips. "What do we do?"

xXx

"Is it gone?" Abbie asks. They are lying in a heap on the floor, tangled, sweaty, and still half-dressed. She has love bites and bite marks on the now-raw skin of her chest and neck, and is almost certain she'll be carrying some very large hand prints on her ass for a couple of days.

"I think so," Crane replies, caressing the skin on her back. "Perhaps." He licks at his lower lip, which is swollen and a little bloody. He also has fingernail marks on his back and a few bite marks on his shoulder.

She adjusts herself a little, moving closer to him. "I've never... I mean that was... _bigger_ than I've ever experienced before. I thought I was going to pass out there for a second," she comments. "Just... wow."

"Yeah," he agrees, uncharacteristically informal. She opens her eyes and just stares. "I believe I am still waiting for my blood flow to return to normal," he explains.

She huffs a short laugh and shifts slightly, moving her head to rest on his shoulder, her fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest. "This is strange."

"Indeed."

xXx

-30 Minutes Earlier-

Abbie paces, trying to keep a safe distance. But no distance is safe, especially because Crane's sense of decorum has him trapped in his seat, hiding himself under the table. She can _smell_ him. He smells of his soap and leather and something else. Something quite irresistible.

"Miss Mills, will you please stop that?" he asks, staring at her rear, clad in those tight jeans she insists on wearing. She turns and finds him looking more flustered than she's ever seen him. "Watching your body move is simply too..." he sighs.

The look of undisguised lust in his expression is too much for Abbie to bear. She marches towards him, and he can do nothing but sit there, a fish in a barrel, as she fists his hair, tilts his head back and plants a wet kiss on his lips.

His hands come up as fast as lightning and grab her arms, his fingers digging in almost painfully as the kiss deepens.

"Oh," she throatily gasps, pulling away. She looks into his eyes, kisses him once more, then says, "I will be back in fifteen minutes."

"Where are you going?" he asks, looking both bewildered and bereft.

"Walgreens," she declares.

xXx

"Good strange, I mean," Abbie clarifies, snuggling against his side.

"You do?" Ichabod asks, hope blossoming in his heart.

"Well, yeah," she says. "I... I'm sorry this had to happen this way, but... I can't say I'm unhappy it happened... or that I haven't wanted it to happen..." she quietly admits.

He leans over and kisses her, finding he is finally able to think clearly, take his time, and give her the proper, thorough kissing she deserves. "May I say it now?" he whispers.

xXx

-15 Minutes Earlier-

Ichabod looks sharply up at the sound of the Archive door slamming.

Abbie gives him a look that can only be called _predatory_ , locks the door with a decided click, stalks towards him, and plunks down a box of condoms on the table.

"I can report that... er, taking matters into my own hands... does nothing to counteract this spell under which we find ourselves," he informs her, looking up into her wide brown eyes.

She bends down and kisses him. "I know," she whispers. His eyes grow as wide as saucers and she explains, "I had five minutes to spare."

"In the car?" he exclaims, scandalized and aroused at once.

She merely shrugs, then leans against the table. "I think we both know what we need to do," she says, finding it more difficult to be pragmatic about the issue when he's _right there_. "I've been trying to think of another way, but..."

"...There isn't one," he finishes. "Miss Mills," he continues, reaching for her hands, "Abbie. I want you to know that while I understand we will be doing this out of necessity," he pulls her onto his lap, "I must admit it is something about which I have," he pauses, kissing her because he just can't _not_ anymore, "thought about... fantasized about... for longer than you realize."

"Oh, God, Crane," she whispers, her fingers slipping into his hair.

"I realize you may not... feel the same way..." he continues talking between increasingly-deeper kisses, his hands beginning to roam, "So, after, I will... respect whatever... you w—"

"Shut up already," she cuts him off, reaching down between them to palm his length, drawing a deep groan from him. "We'll talk about this... later... when we can... think straight," she says. "But I've thought about this, too," she quickly adds after tearing her lips away from his. She does not miss his shocked expression before she turns to tear open the condom box.

Once she has one in hand, he stands, lifting her with him. She squeaks in surprise, then hangs on as he walks them over to a relatively secluded corner. He manages to pull her shirt off along the way and, by the time her back hits the wall, his breeches are undone and they are scrambling to pull her jeans off.

"Good enough," Abbie grunts, one leg freed from the garment. They quickly deal with the condom, then she grabs his shoulders and jumps up, wrapping her legs around him.

Ichabod grabs her backside, lines himself up, and drives into her with no preamble. He groans long and low at the sensation of being sheathed within her, but cannot take the time to fully appreciate this moment. A vague thought of _next time_ floats into his brain, but it is gone as soon as it arrives.

"Unh..." Her voice is husky and low as she pulls his head towards hers, kissing him hungrily, all probing tongues and nipping teeth. Somewhere the words _beard burn_ register in the back of her mind, but right now it feels so good she doesn't care. In fact, she wants more of it. She wants his face on her body; wants her skin left raw and tingling from him. She tears her lips from his once more, pulls his head towards her neck, and reaches down with one hand to shove at her bra. "Harder," she whispers.

He mutters some response and obliges, thrusting more forcefully as he bends his back to kiss down to her breasts.

xXx

"That depends," Abbie cautiously answers.

"On?" Crane looks down at her.

"What, exactly, it is you want to say."

"Well... I cannot discern whether or not we broke the spell because... I still want you," he says. His voice is soft and rough, but it lacks the desperation it held earlier.

"Oh," she quietly gasps, a bit thrown because his words were not what she was expecting.

"And I still want you because I love you, Abbie," he adds in case she gets any ideas about preventing him from finally saying it. "I have fallen deeply in love with you."

 _There it is._ Abbie keeps her head down, not meeting his eyes. "I know," she whispers. She has suspected as much for a while, which is only slightly longer than she realized her own feelings for him. She turns her head and kisses his chest, her fingers idly tracing his scar. They fall quiet for a full minute, then she takes a deep breath and seems to make a decision. "I know," she repeats, "because I love you, too." She says the words to his chest, knowing he will understand, but a moment later, finds herself hauled fully on top of him.

Ichabod kisses her again, his long fingers dancing down her back. He says nothing, but the pleasant hums coming from his throat combined with his exuberant kisses tell her everything she needs to know.

"Let's go," she says, attempting to withdraw herself from his embrace.

He groans in protest, holding tightly.

"Ichabod," she tries again, and he stops. "Let's go." She sits up.

"Go?" he asks, brow furrowed.

"Yes. To the cabin," she explains. She leans down and pecks his lips. "I want to be able to take our time and really enjoy ourselves," she whispers, kissing his nose. "And this time it has nothing to do with any sort of sex whammy."


	15. Tending a Wound in a Delicate Area

Crane isn't sure which one of them is more uncomfortable right now. Abbie is lying face down on the table in the cabin with an arrow sticking out of the back of her upper thigh. Crane is pondering the arrow and its proximity to his partner's... impressive derrière.

Said arrow came from one of those blasted Hessians, and thankfully, is not poisoned. However, it is positioned right below the crease where her thigh meets her backside.

"You gonna do something or just stare at my ass?" Abbie snaps, jolting him into action.

"I assure you I was not... I was merely contemplating the best course of action," he protests.

"You're going to have to cut my jeans off," she says, sounding rather irritated by this prospect.

"I could pull the arrow out and then..."

"You know that's not the right way to do this. I could lose too much blood if you pull the arrow out first," she reminds him.

"Of course, of course. You're right... you're right..." he mutters, cross with himself for being flustered when his partner's injury should be his primary concern. _If it wasn't in such a... delicate area..._

"You do realize while you're taking the time to say everything twice, this kind of hurts, right?" Abbie says, her voice annoyed.

"Oh. Yes. Sorry." Crane scurries away to get a pair of scissors, and is back in a flash. "Would you like a shot of rum?"

"No good. Alcohol thins the blood. Just get to it." She takes a deep breath and grips the edge of the table. "Good thing these aren't my favorite jeans," she adds in a mutter.

He carefully removes her boot and begins cutting into her jeans, taking great care to not stab her in the leg. "This would be easier if you wouldn't wear trousers that were so... _snug-fitting_ , Lieutenant," he comments, head bent over his task. In truth, now that he is well over being scandalized by women in trousers, he has come to rather enjoy the way her jeans hug her curvy figure. His fingers brush the bare skin of her leg, and he tries to ignore how soft and warm it is.

"Not the time to be criticizing my clothing," she replies. "Besides, you don't get to cast stones at anyone about their fashion choices, Yankee Doodle."

He tersely grunts and slows his progress, his scissors approaching the arrow in her leg. "Steady," he murmurs, instructing his partner not to move. Ten seconds later, the scissors just touch the shaft of the arrow, and she hisses between her teeth. "Apologies," he quietly says.

"It's okay," Abbie exhales. She feels him gently spread open the flaps of her rent jeans, then pull just slightly, tearing them above the place where the arrow pierced them, not wishing to continue using the scissors. She can tell by the cool air brushing her skin that her pant leg is split all the way up to the pocket. She decides to concentrate on anything except the arrow in her leg, instead focusing on the state of her jeans. _Can't even make them into shorts. Probably just have to toss them, much as I hate to._ Then, something else occurs to her. _I hope he has something I can wear home..._

Oblivious to his partner's thoughts, Crane stares a moment, opens his mouth, then abruptly closes it, clenching his jaw as he tries (and fails) not to look at the lush lower curve of her backside. He knows she _must_ be wearing some sort of undergarment, but he'll be damned if he can spot any trace of it right now. He steels himself and bends low over her thigh to inspect the wound.

"How is it? Is it deep?"

"It does not appear too deep," he assesses. "You can be thankful that these are modern arrows. The indigenous peoples used arrows with tips designed to remain inside the victim once the shaft was removed."

"That's... really clever, though it sounds horrible for the victim," she says, trying to distract herself.

"Indeed," he agrees. "And the entire point – ha, point – of that particular feature."

She huffs a dry laugh which turns into another hiss as he gently prods. "Fewer puns, more first aid, Crane."

"Forgive me. I am simply trying to distract—"

Her voice is low and deadly. "Get that thing out of my ass or so help me you will be the next thing it gets stuck in."

 _In which it gets stuck,_ his brain automatically corrects, but he knows better than to verbalize the thought. He places his left hand on her leg, bracing the arrow shaft between his index and ring finger to hold it steady.

Abbie feels nothing but his giant, warm hand on her skin, his long fingers digging in just slightly, the light pressure a welcome distraction from the pain of the arrow.

"Are you ready?" Ichabod asks, his voice gentle.

"Yeah," she breathes, gripping the edge of the table again.

He tightens his grasp on her leg just a little. She holds her breath. He takes hold of the arrow with his right hand and slowly, smoothly, begins to withdraw it from her leg without jostling or bumping her.

"I'm ready, Crane—oh," she says a few moments later, stopping short when he waves the arrow in front of her face. She hadn't even realized he'd pulled it out. A moment later, she feels him press a large gauze pad to the wound to help staunch the bleeding.

"I may have some experience removing arrows from people," he blithely remarks, clearly pleased with himself.

Abbie rolls her eyes, refusing to pet his ego. "I suppose you learned how from a Shawnee Medicine Man or something?"

"No. A Shawnee maiden, in fact," he replies. "She was very wise and very beautiful," he adds.

"How many women did you charm back in the day?" she asks, turning slightly to look at him and immediately regretting the motion. "Damn it."

"I did not 'charm' Sokanon," he says.

"Right..." she replies.

He lifts the gauze pad, sees the bleeding has slowed, and replaces it with a clean one. "She was promised to the chief's eldest son."

Abbie laughs, which makes her body shake on the table. Crane quickly looks up and away from her bouncing rear end. "Miss Mills," he sputters.

She had completely forgotten that she is rather exposed and he has a front row seat. "Sorry," she says, but starts laughing more, picturing what his face must look like. All she can do is pray he doesn't decide to poke her in her wound to get her to stop laughing. _He would never do that to me._

"Lieutenant," he tries again, sterner this time. "I need to dress your wound and I cannot do so with you... giggling like that."

"Sorry," she repeats. "I think the adrenaline is wearing off... feeling kind of loopy." She sighs. "And tired."

He nods and sets about preparing a new gauze pad to use to cover the wound. "Oh, dear," he says, staring at her thigh. "Um, I think it would be more secure if I could wrap the bandage completely around your... leg... but I..."

"I don't know if I can manage standing for that long," she says, her giggles quite gone now. "Um, yeah, this is a problem." Every possible solution will either be humiliating for her or mortifying for him. "Welp. Nothing for it, I guess." She lifts up, half on her side, and attempts to hold her knee up. "Ugh, I can't."

"Here." Crane grabs a couple of throw pillows from the couch and puts them under her knee.

"Thanks. Um, don't be shy... I guess..."

He clenches his jaw again. "I think we are well past that point, Miss Mills." He holds the pad to the wound, then takes a roll of gauze and begins wrapping it around her upper thigh, attempting to touch her as little as possible. Especially now that he sees she is wearing what he has learned is called a _thong._

"You should probably call me 'Abbie' with your hands all up in my business like that," she teases, attempting to distract herself once again.

"Or perhaps I should have first purchased you dinner?" he asks, peeking up at her, eyebrow jauntily raised.

She gapes for a second, then starts laughing again. "Oh, my God... I think that was your first truly modern joke..." she observes between giggles. Then she sniffles dramatically. "I'm so proud," she says, pretending to be overcome with emotion.

He chuckles, always very pleased with himself when he can bring a smile or, better still, a laugh to his partner. This is the first time he's made her laugh this hard and it warms him more than he was expecting. He tucks in the end of the gauze, then secures it with a few strips of tape. "I believe you are all set... _Abbie,_ " he says, pointedly using her first name.

She snorts a small laugh, then rolls over, coming precariously close to the edge of the table. "Whoa."

He catches her, his hand accidentally landing on her backside. "Oh," he softly exclaims, quickly removing it. "Um, let me see if I have something you can wear," he mutters, then hastily heads towards his room, fingers flying at his side.

"I'll see if Jenny can bring me some jeans," she says, picking up her phone and sending a text to her sister.

 _I'm two hours away. Doesn't Crane have a pair of boxers or something he can loan you?_ Jenny replies.

 _He's looking now. Thanks anyway._ Abbie sets the phone back down, sighs, then attempts to sit up. "Shit," she curses.

"Lieutenant, you should not be doing that," Crane says, returning with a pair of cotton sleep shorts. "I am rather slender, so these may fit to an acceptable degree."

"Thanks. Um, I might need some help," she says.

"I expected as much," he answers, setting the shorts down and walking over to help her down from the table.

xXx

Eight months later, they tumble into bed together, finally, _finally_ scratching a long-denied itch, and as Crane's hand skims up her inner thigh, Abbie starts to giggle.

"I didn't realize you were ticklish," he murmurs, his face buried in the curve of her neck. It doesn't stop his hand, and she actually feels him smile against her skin.

"I'm not... not there, anyway," she says. "I was just remembering..."

"The last time my hand was in this area," he finishes, guessing her thoughts. He slides his hand inward and around to the back of her thigh, his nimble fingers finding the small scar left by the arrow. Suddenly, he starts laughing as well. He lifts his head. "I did, in fact, purchase dinner for you tonight," he says.

"Yes, you did." She pauses, gasping as his fingers nab the edge of her panties and begin tugging at them. "And here we are, with your hands all up in my business again." She lifts her hips to assist his efforts.

"Just one hand... Abbie," he says, murmuring her name close in her ear.

Her eyes slide closed, a contented smile on her face, as she and Crane find a new way to strengthen their bond as Witnesses.


	16. Professor - Student AU

The bomb threats were really becoming a problem. Most of them wound up being nothing, but there was the one.

One is all that it took.

It was small and no one was hurt, but it was still _there._

Special Agent Abigail Mills was chosen to go investigate. Her boss, Director Corbin, decided she was the best candidate for the job because not only is she a brilliant profiler, but she is also young enough to blend into the college atmosphere.

"You do realize that older people attend universities, right?" she asked when he gave her the assignment, thinking him being overly cautious.

"Yes, but the older students stand out. You can still pass for 20 years old. Even younger with the right accessories. I really need someone who doesn't scream 'Narc' to the other students," Corbin explained.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Did you seriously just say 'Narc'? Do people even use that term any more?"

He laughed. "See, this is why you are perfect for this." His weathered face turned serious again, and he adds, "Mills, you know how highly I think of your skills. _That_ is the main reason why I want you on this case. The fact that you can pass for a fresh-faced co-ed in both looks and attitude is just... icing on the cake."

"Is it the bee's knees?" she returned, knowing she is the only one who can get away with teasing the director like this.

"Mills..."

"Should I 23-skidoo?" she asked, standing and indicating the door.

"You'd better before I change my mind and send you out to North Dakota to investigate those ice fishing murders," he retorted, keeping his face carefully neutral even though he knows she can see right through his bluff.

"Ugh. No thanks. I'll take a university down in Virginia over winter in North Dakota any day," she replied.

xXx

Most of the threats were made to Washington Hall, where the History and Political Science classes were held. Therefore, Abbie is supposed to be an American History major with a minor in Political Science, so she can spend a lot of time in the building. According to the case file, the threats are believed to be from a student.

It's halfway through the semester already, so Abbie is posing as a transfer student who had to make the switch before the winter break because of a sick mother.

In the interest of security, the only people in the university who know the truth about Abbie are University President Albert Knapp, the Deans of the History and Poli-Sci departments, Henry Parrish and Frank Irving, respectively, and the head of Campus Security, Leena Reyes.

She walks into her American History class and hands a slip of paper to the professor. He is a tall, startlingly thin man with long hair, a beard, and kind, intelligent eyes who has an interesting interpretation of fashion. He takes her note, scans it quickly, and nods. "Very good. Welcome, Miss Grayson."

Abbie is startled by the British accent coming from the _American_ History professor's mouth, but does not react. "Thanks." She moves to the back of the room and takes a seat as the rest of the class gradually files in.

"You're new," a young man says, and Abbie looks up.

"Um, yes. Transfer," she explains, knowing less details are safer.

"Doesn't that usually happen at semester breaks?" he asks.

"I'm a special case. Um, family emergency," she replies, attempting to look uncomfortable enough (not difficult) to dissuade him from any follow-up questions.

"Oh, okay," he shrugs. "I'm Andy," he says.

"Lori," she answers. "Nice to mee—"

She is cut off by Dr. Crane's pointed throat-clearing, indicating that class is about to begin, so she turns back to her desk.

Already having taken several courses in American History, she listens with half an ear while surreptitiously looking around the room, assessing her fellow students. She makes mental notes of anyone who appears suspicious in any way, knowing she'll have to make physical ones later. It's too risky to write anything down in the classroom in case anyone sees her notes.

Unfortunately, Dr. Crane is a very engaging speaker, and Abbie can't help listening more than she planned to. She even learns a few things. As she's walking out, he calls to her.

"Miss Grayson?"

"Um, yeah?" she asks, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder.

"I noticed you seemed a little distracted. I do hope your family situation is not going to adversely affect your studies," he says, sounding more concerned for her than for her performance in his class.

"No, I'm good. Just... settling in, I guess. This was my first class," she explains. "I just hope I didn't miss anything important that might be on the final," she adds, smiling a little.

"I can give you a summary of the material we've covered thus far, if you like," he offers. "It's little more than an outline, but it should suffice."

"Thank you, I'd appreciate that very much," she says.

"I will email you a copy," he replies with a nod.

"Thanks again."

"You are quite welcome. And I do hope your mother makes a full recovery," he adds.

"Me too, thanks. See you Wednesday," she responds, and turns to leave. _He's cute._ The thought comes unbidden, and she pushes it away, reminding herself that she's supposed to be a 20-year-old student. She takes out her schedule. _Okay... where to next?_

xXx

Abbie keeps to herself mostly. She's friendly enough, but knows that her time here is very temporary and there is really no point in making any new friends. She has no interest in partying anymore, so if she does get invited, she politely declines, using her "family situation" as her excuse.

"Aw, come on, Lori, you can't come out for an hour?" Andy presses one morning before American History. She's been there two weeks and is starting to get frustrated with the lack of activity.

"No, I really can't, Andy," she answers. "Thanks for the invite, but it ain't happening."

"You're sure?"

"Dude, she said no. Let it go," another young man ( _What is his name? Mark? Link? Luke. It's Luke_ ) turns around and says. "How many times does she have to turn you down before you get the idea?"

"It's fine," Abbie says while Andy glowers and turns away. She's somewhat grateful to Luke for intervening, but she has an endless well of _No_ to draw from, so Andy's persistence really wasn't bothering her. "Thanks though," she adds.

"You're welcome. I was getting tired of hearing him invite you out to his _stupid frat house_ ," this he says a bit louder, looking over at Andy, "before every class. I can only imagine how sick of it _you_ were."

She shrugs lightly, noting Dr. Crane moving to the front of the room to begin class. "I've dealt with worse," she says. "Not a big deal." _The only kind of extracurricular activity I'm interested in involves arresting someone._

Thankfully, she has some solid leads and is watching three students very closely. The first is a man in her Poli Sci class named Abraham Van Brunt, who is a textbook loner type. Very standoffish, very quiet, immediately defensive when approached. The second is Solomon Kent, who isn't in any of her classes, but she made it her business to find out who he is. Tremendously antisocial, brooding, thinks he's better than his classmates so he looks down at everyone. Possibly a fanatic of some sort. The third is a woman, Katrina Van Tassel, who is in Abbie's American History class and seems to have a sizable crush on Dr. Crane. But that's not what makes her suspicious (in fact, Abbie can understand the crush). What makes her suspicious is Abbie has often seen her lingering and lurking about in unexpected places, looking very anxious, like she has either already done something or is about to. Something simply seems _off_ about Katrina and Abbie cannot pinpoint it. So now she spends most of her time in History keeping an eye on Miss Van Tassel.

xXx

"How fares your mother?"

Abbie looks up from her book. She had been sitting alone in a common area on campus, waiting for her next class, and was not expecting to see Dr. Ichabod Crane standing there, looking down at her.

"Oh... she's making slow progress, thank you," she says, looking around a little, appearing as though she doesn't want other students hearing her.

"Forgive me. I did not realize you were uncomfortable with the subject. I have overstepped and I apologize," he says.

"It's all right. I... it's not that I'm uncomfortable, it's just... well, it's none of their business, you know?" Realizing how that might sound, she quickly adds, "It was very nice of you to ask after her. I appreciate your concern, thank you."

"You are most welcome," he says. "I... have some experience dealing with an ill parent," he quietly adds. "I simply wished to let you know that my door is open if you ever need an empathetic ear."

She smiles, wondering what she did to deserve this attention. Cursing her jaded nature, she begins reading him to try and see if there may be an ulterior motive in his offer. _He appears to be genuinely concerned. And by all accounts he is above reproach, so I think I'll take this at face value._

"Thanks," she answers. "That's very kind." Then she notices the clock, and stands. "I have a class to get to, sorry." She smiles apologetically at him, then heads to the stairwell.

Crane puzzles after her as she walks away. _She is very mature for her age. It must be the responsibility she is shouldering._

xXx

"Yes, sir. I'll get right on it. Thank you for telling me so quickly," Abbie says into her cell early one morning a week later. They had just received a bomb threat, and Dr. Irving had called to let her know. "I'm on my way."

She calls Corbin as she drives to Washington Hall. It's an hour before classes (now cancelled) were scheduled to start, so she's hoping to fly in under the radar. Thankfully, she makes it to Irving's office unseen. Parrish, Knapp, and Reyes are also there.

"Phone call or email?" Abbie asks.

"Both, actually," Captain Reyes says. She slides a printout to Abbie.

The agent quickly scans the message. "Please tell me you still have it on your computer," she says. "Who received it?"

"I did," Dr. Parrish says. "Dr. Irving received the call."

"I'd like to hear it," Abbie says. "Then I'm going to need to access your computer, sir," she adds, looking at Parrish.

"Of course," he replies.

Abbie sets things into motion, forwarding emails and voice mails to the home office, asking questions about suspicious activity – or students – in classes and on campus. When the designated detonation time for the alleged bomb is an hour away, Abbie and Reyes make their way to the location where the bomb is supposed to be hidden.

It's very close to Crane's room. A little too close, because they nearly run into Crane.

"Agent, what—" Reyes turns back and sees Abbie pressed against the wall, waiting.

"I'm undercover, remember?"

"But we are investigating."

"Yes, and if we find nothing, I have to continue being undercover," Abbie reminds her. "I have classes with Dr. Crane, and the less he knows, the better. He's already fidgety as hell, I don't want to make him _more_ agitated."

Reyes snorts a small, quiet laugh. "Man has a rod shoved so far up his... okay, he's going into his office. He's not even supposed to be here..." she muses a moment. "Oh. He's leaving now. Must have needed something." She waits five seconds, then waves Abbie out.

As they begin their search, Abbie catches a glimpse of motion in her periphery, and turns her head. She motions to Reyes that she going to investigate, and heads in the direction of the movement.

She sniffs. Perfume. A very distinct scent, one she can't place. It's sweet, but musky, with a touch of talc. _I've smelled this before._ Abbie wracks her brain, trying to recall where.

A flash of dark red hair darting around the corner jogs her memory. _Katrina. It's her scent. I remember she brushed past me after class, accidentally-but-not-really bumping my shoulder as I asked Dr. Crane a question about that outline he gave me._

She doesn't give chase at this time, running quickly and quietly back to where Reyes is still searching.

"What was that?" the older woman asks.

"A person," Abbie says. "A _suspect._ "

"Did he see you?"

"Nope. Find anything?"

"Yes. It's a dud." Reyes shows her a block of wood. It appears to be a section of a two-by-four about six inches long. The words "next time" are written on it in black marker.

Abbie picks up the block with gloved hands and smells it.

"What are you doing?" Reyes asks.

"Perfume," Abbie answers. "I just smelled a distinct perfume while following the suspect. I wanted to see if it was on this wood as well."

"And?" Reyes asks.

Abbie holds the block out, and the captain leans in and smells. "You get it?" Abbie asks.

"Ugh, that's terrible," she answers.

"That's Katrina Van Tassel," Abbie corrects. "I need to call this in, get a warrant, all that good stuff. We need to search Miss Van Tassel's apartment."

Reyes nods, and Abbie bags the block of wood. "So Van Tassel was actually still lurking about? That's pretty amateur," Captain Reyes says as they walk back up to Irving's office.

"Well, she's a college student, not a criminal mastermind," Abbie replies. "Not yet, anyway. And she won't become one, if things go my way."

"Do they usually? Go your way?" Reyes asks.

"Yes," Abbie answers.

xXx

Katrina Van Tassel's apartment turned up a lot of interesting items hidden all around. Among them were various chemicals and wires, several clandestine photos of Dr. Ichabod Crane tacked on the wall (mostly taken in class; one or two elsewhere, including one very troubling one through what appeared to be his kitchen window), a scarf (which later turned out to be one Crane thought he had lost) also tacked to the same wall, a saw, and the rest of the two-by-four. They also seized her laptop and smartphone, both of which proved to be holding some _very_ interesting information, including a rather incriminating browser history and even more photos.

Abbie knew Katrina had a crush on Dr. Crane, but apparently it was snowballing into – or had already become – a full-blown obsession. At first, she thought it was the standard "If I can't have him I'll kill everyone" mindset, but thanks to the information gathered from the young woman's laptop, Abbie learned Katrina was planning to play the frightened damsel in distress, counting on the professor's chivalrous, gentlemanly nature to somehow compel him to protect her from the scary bomb threats. Bomb threats she herself was making.

After Katrina's arrest, Abbie hung around campus for another few days, just making sure everything was cool, but she didn't attend classes any more, her cover now blown. She was mostly glad to be done with college life, having lived through it once already. Still, she wanted to stop and say goodbye to Irving and Parrish (mainly Irving) before she made the short trip back to D.C., so the morning after Katrina was arrested, Abbie made her way through the corridors of Washington Hall one last time.

"Miss Grayson." Abbie almost didn't turn, already forgetting her fake name. She was also lost in thought, making a mental grocery list and thinking she should call her sister and let her know she's okay.

"Dr. Crane," she says, stopping short. She hadn't really seen him since she and Reyes found the wooden block. "I... I guess you know now..."

"Yes," he nods. "And thank you. Do you have a moment?" he asks, gesturing to his office.

"Um, yeah. I was just on my way out. Had to say goodbye to Frank. He's a great guy. Henry's not bad, either. A little... quirky, but he kind of grows on you."

"Indeed," he agrees, following her inside. He closes the door behind him.

His office is exactly what Abbie would have expected it to be. Wall-to-wall books, but very orderly and – yes, a quick glance confirms that the copious volumes are alphabetized by author.

"I wished to thank you again for your investigation. To be quite honest, Miss Van Tassel made me a trifle uneasy," he says.

"Well, hopefully she'll get the help she needs," Abbie answers.

"Miss Gr— that's not your name, is it?" Crane asks.

"Special Agent Abbie Mills, FBI" she says with a smile. "Pleased to meet you." She even offers her hand, which he grasps and shakes, his long fingers engulfing hers.

"Ichabod Crane, professor of History," he replies. "I am honored to make your acquaintance and am about to ask you something I fear I should not," he adds. He holds her hand a second longer, then gently releases it.

"Oh? And why not?" she asks. Suddenly the office feels smaller. Maybe it's the way he's now looking at her. Maybe it's the way she's now allowing herself to see him.

"I fear you might think it improper. You were a student of mine, even if only for a short time," he says, his voice softer, lower.

"I wasn't really a student," she counters, cautiously allowing herself to hope. "I was on the class roster, yes, but I was never actually admitted to this university and I didn't pay any tuition."

He ponders that for a moment. "I assume you are _not_ 20 years old?"

"Plus ten," she answers with a chuckle.

He slowly nods. "Then would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner this coming Saturday?"

Abbie smiles. "I would love to."


	17. One Lands on the Other

"Miss Mills, they were out of turkey, so I got you a ham sandwich instead. I hope that is acceptable," Crane says, walking into the Archives with a bag containing their lunches. "I got roast beef for myself, so if you'd prefer that I would gladly take the ham. How they can be 'out' of turkey is beyond me, but I—" His voice breaks off as he sees her perched dangerously high on a rickety ladder, a book under one arm while she reaches for another volume. This particular ladder is one he recently set aside to take back to the cabin and break up to use as firewood. He drops the lunch bag on the nearest table and runs over.

"Ham is good, thanks Cra—whoa," Abbie replies, losing her balance a little.

"Lieutenant, you must come down from there," he urgently says. "That ladder is most unst—Abbie!"

The ladder creaks, there is a splintering sound, and Abbie drops with a surprised shout, books flying out of her grasp as she falls.

Crane reaches for her, grabbing her around the middle, but his footing isn't stable, so they topple to the floor, Witness One sprawled on top of Witness Two.

"Oof!" she grunts as they hit the floor. "Whoa... thanks, Crane. Crane?" she pushes up, looking down at him.

His eyes are wide and he is gulping hopelessly, like a goldfish that has fallen out of his bowl. A moment later, he gasps, long and hard, sucking air back into his lungs. "Oh... goodness..." he huffs.

"Knocked the wind out of you," she comments. "Sorry."

He nods, then looks up at her. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," she answers. "You?"

"Now that I can breathe again, yes. I am glad you are unharmed. I set that ladder aside because it is only fit for firewood."

"Ah, that's why it was over by the door..."

"I was planning on bringing it to the cabin so that I might chop it up."

His fingers twitch. Abbie feels it on her back, and realizes she is still lying on top of him. "Oh!" she exclaims, scrambling off of him. "Sorry," she apologizes again.

"Quite all right," he replies, sitting up.

"So you weren't kidding about the firewood," she says, sitting facing him on the floor. She wraps her arms around her knees, hugging them.

"Not at all. And until we acquire a new ladder, I must ask that you wait for my assistance in retrieving things from high places," he requests, arching his eyebrow just so.

She lightly shoves him, laughing. "Fine. You can boost me up like you did in that warehouse."

His cheeks color, the memory of her round backside pressed against his face as she reached for that lantern returning to his mind with vivid clarity. "We shall... procure a new ladder as soon as possible," he says.

"Oh! Or I can climb up and sit on your shoulders," she continues, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

"That would be most undignified for us both," he huffs, trying not to think about that same backside on his shoulders, her thighs on either side of his face... _Oh, dear._

"All right, we'll go to the hardware store later," she relents, standing. She holds her hand down. He takes it and she pulls him to his feet.

"Ah," Crane groans, hopping onto one foot. "I must have... what is the term I recently heard? _Tweaked_ my knee a tad in the fall."

"Oh," Abbie comes over and ducks under his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders. She helps him over to the table where their sandwiches are still waiting. "I'll get you some ice and ibuprofen," she says, patting his shoulder.

"Thank you," he replies, sitting.

"It's the least I can do for my _hero,_ " she says, drawing the word out as she disappears into the corridor.

"Miss Mills, I would face all manner of danger and risk injury to every part of my body if it means keeping you safe," Crane quietly tells the bag containing their lunches.

"What was that?" Abbie asks, popping her head back in. She heard him mutter something, but couldn't make it out.

"Oh... nothing. Simply muttering to myself," he answers. Once he's certain she's out of earshot, he adds, "Perhaps one day I _will_ tell you, Abbie."


	18. Accidentally Saw You Naked

Eidetic memories aren't always a good thing. In fact, they are positively a burden, especially when one sees something one does not wish to see.

Or, in fact, something one is not _meant_ to see.

The last thing Crane intended was to walk in on his partner in the altogether.

But it happened. It happened, and now he cannot erase the image of her tiny, perfect body, still dewy with moisture from the shower, glowing in a sunbeam, from his mind.

And what an image it is.

It was completely her fault though.

Well... perhaps if Crane had showed up at her door at 8:30 instead of 8:10... or if he hadn't panicked when she didn't answer the door, prompting him to dig out the spare key she gave him... or if he had called out to her once inside instead of choosing to move stealthily about...

_No. It is her fault. What sort of person swans about, out in the open, without any clothing on, even in her own home?_

"Crane!" Abbie yelled, diving to crouch behind the bed. He is standing frozen in her bedroom doorway.

"A-apol..." was all he could squeak out before turning on his heel and fleeing.

He got as far as her front door when he remembered they had _work_ to do and that's why he was there.

He is still standing and staring at the inside of the closed door, his hand hovering over the knob, when he hears her quiet footsteps behind him.

"I'm covered," she says.

"V-very good," he replies, still not turning around. His cheeks are still on fire, the image of her still quite fresh in his mind. He closes his eyes, attempting to gather his wits, but that proves to be a terrible idea, as his closed eyelids are like a screen on which the Lieutenant's glorious, supple form is projected.

"You can turn around." Her voice sounds only a little annoyed, which surprises him.

Slowly, he turns. "I'm sorry, Abbie," he exhales, looking anywhere but at her. When she said she was "covered" he had assumed she was dressed. Instead, she's standing there in a plush gray bathrobe, undoubtedly still naked beneath.

"Okay, first: It was an honest mistake. Second: What. The hell?"

"I am sorry... I arrived earlier than our agreed-upon time... I knocked, and you didn't answer..."

She takes a few steps toward him. "So you just thought you'd let yourself in and prowl around?"

He clears his throat, growing more agitated as she continues to move towards him. "I... I did let myself in, but o-only because I feared for your safety... that is also why I remained silent, so... so as not to alert any possible in-intruders to my presence—Miss Mills, for the love of all that is sacred, would you put something on?"

"Am I making you flustered, Crane?" she asks, stopping right in front of him, trapping him between herself and the door.

It's preposterous, really. He's nearly twice her size. He knows he isn't _really_ trapped.

Yet he cannot seem to find the will to move.

He glances down, and his eyes immediately lock onto the opening of her robe and the enticing cleavage contained therein. He feels his cheeks flush again and he snaps his eyes forward.

"Miss Mills," he says, but he doesn't know what else to say.

She rests her hand on his chest. "Thank you for being concerned," she says, her voice softer now. "But you need to make amends."

"Anything," he sighs, then immediately stiffens when she slides both hands up his chest and under the shoulders of his coat, sliding it off of his shoulders. "Miss— Lieutenant..."

She deftly removes his coat, then tosses it aside. "Turnabout is fair play, Ichabod," she says, her voice still honey-smooth. "I showed you mine," she adds, her hands trailing down his chest to his stomach, where she tugs his shirt, pulling it half free from his trousers, "now you show me yours."

"Abbie... I..." he stammers. He's completely thrown. This is the last thing he was expecting. He had been under the impression that the attraction he felt to her was not reciprocated.

"Yes?" she purrs, her hands now slipping beneath his shirt, her palms cool against his warm skin.

He wants her. He has wanted her for some time now. The knowledge she also wants him combined with the still-too-fresh memory of her naked body in that blasted sunbeam is more than he can bear. "I..."

She pauses as a wave of uncertainty washes over her. _Maybe I misread...?_ Her hands still and she quietly asks, "Do you want me to stop?"

This little glimmer of uncertainty on her part is his undoing. His body is screaming _No, no, don't stop, don't ever stop, don't ever, for one moment, think I don't want you!_ He gazes briefly but deeply into her wide brown eyes, then answers her question by lowering his head and capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

Abbie squeak-moans, mildly startled by his ardor, but quickly recovers, lightly digging her nails into his stomach before sliding her hands around to his back.

Crane wraps his arms around her, hands splaying wide on her back, long digits covering the comparatively small area. He tightens his hold, trying to pull her higher, closer, and she responds by moving her feet so she is standing on top of his boots, giving her an extra three inches or so. He feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth even as he kisses her, his clever Lieutenant, her plump lips and sweet tongue like ambrosia in his mouth.

"Crane..." she gasps, finding a millimeter of space to breathe his name before diving back in, devouring his lips.

"Abmmm," he responds, moving one hand from her back to reach behind and lock the door. Then he begins walking, a bit stiffly because her feet are still on his, back to her bedroom.

"Yeah," she breathily agrees with his decision. Once he stops walking, she pulls on his shirt some more, completely untucking it.

He pulls away from her just long enough to yank his shirt up and off. She sits on the bed, watching, leaning back on her elbows. He looks down at her. She crosses one leg over the other, exposing a great deal of thigh, and gives him a look that clearly says _I'm waiting._

He cocks an eyebrow, squares his shoulders, and sets about removing his boots. Keeping his eyes on her, he moves his hands to the buttons of his trousers. Less than a minute later, he is completely naked and unashamedly stalking towards her.

Abbie scoots further onto the bed, resting her head on the pillow as Ichabod climbs over her, reaching for the belt of her robe. He unties it and opens the garment.

This time he lets himself look. Her image is already indelibly burned into his memory, but he finds he is rather greedy where she is concerned. "Off," he grunts, pushing at the robe where it is still resting on her shoulders.

She smiles coyly at him, then lifts up and slips her arms out of the sleeves. He pulls it out from under her and drops it on the floor.

His lips are on hers before her head hits the pillow again, and they resume their hungry kisses, this time enjoying the feel of skin on skin.

Their hands roam everywhere, learning, caressing, even tickling a bit in places. Crane begins blazing a trail of hot, wet kisses down Abbie's neck. She moans and writhes beneath him, plunging her hands into his unbound hair to grip his head as he makes his way to her breasts.

"Oh..." she sighs when his lips close over a nipple, sliding his tongue around the hardened nub. "Oh," she repeats, a little more clearly this time, and reaches into her nightstand, groping for the box of condoms she hopes is still there and not expired.

"Abbie, what...?" he asks, briefly lifting his head to see what she is doing. "Ah," he assesses, understanding, then resumes his activity, now attending to her other breast.

 _Not expired. Thank God._ She opens the box, takes one out, and sets it on the nightstand. She vaguely recognizes his understanding of her actions, but she's not sure if he's just aware of what condoms are because he's been in this century long enough or if they were a thing in his time.

Hands now free, she reaches for his shaft, which has been teasing at her thighs. It feels thick and heavy in her hand, and she gives it a few loving strokes. He grunts and almost collapses onto her. "Good," he murmurs, gently biting her nipple before returning to her lips. His hand slides down between her legs, and she purrs with pleasure when his fingers find her. He answers with a groan when he discovers how wet she is for him.

Abbie writhes under his attentions, tilting her hips to press against his hand. "Mmm..." she moans, groping again for the condom. His thumb skates over her swollen nub and she mewls, "Now..." Her fingers fumble with the condom wrapper for a second before successfully opening it.

"Yes," Ichabod agrees, moving just enough to allow her to roll the item over his shaft. "Unh," he grunts, unaccustomed to the feel of it, but when she drags her finger along his length, he relaxes again. "Oh."

She moves him into place and he slides into her, kissing her as he does so. She moans into his mouth, lifting her knees higher to allow him to go deeper.

"Oh, Abbie," he gasps, fully seated within her now, taking a moment to _really_ cement this moment in his memory. "Oh, how I love you..." he whispers to her neck, eyes tightly shut.

"Show me," she whispers, lightly trailing her fingers down his back, leaving goosebumps in her wake. She moves her head to lick and nip his earlobe. "Show me, Ichabod," she repeats.

He begins moving, slowly at first, finding his rhythm. Abbie doesn't know how long it's been for him – she assumes he and Katrina must have done _something_ at least once during her brief tenure in this time, but she doesn't know for sure. So it might be two years or it might be 250 years, but she'll be damned if she's going to ask _that_ question. But as he speeds up, grows surer in his movements, all thoughts flee her brain.

He bends his back so he can kiss her. She delves her hands into his hair, then down to his shoulders, then up to his cheeks, and back to his shoulders, making small gasps and coos all the while. When she moves one hand down to grab his backside, he groans again, but keeps his pace.

"Oh... yes... ah... close... rightthere... yeh... ah... oh!" She arches beneath him, lovely mouth forming a perfect O as she clenches around him, climaxing beautifully beneath him.

The sight of her is too much for him and he thrusts twice more, then surges forth with a growl, stilling deep within her. "Abbie..." Her name falls from his lips in a low grunt, but it sounds – and feels – like a soft caress to her.

She wraps her arms around him and they ride out the wave together, clinging to one another, wanting nothing more than to be as close as they possibly can. They stay that way for a short time, finally moving only because they have to. Crane is getting heavy and things are starting to get a bit sweaty.

He sweetly kisses her and rolls to the side, stretching his long arm out to the nightstand for a couple of tissues. After a brief clean-up, he tucks Abbie against his side, pulling the sheet over them and kissing her forehead.

"Well, that wasn't exactly how I anticipated starting my day," she says, snuggling against him, finding his slender body to be remarkably cuddly.

He chuckles. "I would not mind starting every day this way," he replies. "Perhaps leaving out the earlier panic and awkwardness."

She joins his laughter, kissing his neck. "Unfortunately, we don't always have the luxury of a leisurely morning."

"All the more reason to take full advantage while we can."

She looks up at him, surprised.

"Yes?"

"I never would have thought you would be so..." she pauses a moment, realizing the ridiculousness of her statement. _He's a passionate guy. About everything. Why wouldn't he be... enthusiastic about this too?_ "Never mind," she says, dropping her head back down. "I wasn't thinking it through."

"Indeed not, Miss Mills," he agrees. "Abbie," he adds, correcting himself. This shift in their association calls for a shift in how he addresses her. "I believe I have much more call to be surprised in the events that transpired this morning. You keep your heart well hidden, my love."

She sighs. "Yeah, I know. Sorry." Then she remembers something, and lifts her head to look at him again. "I love you, too, Ichabod. I... I don't know if I'll say it much, but..."

He kisses her. "I know. I understand it is difficult for you. But take heart in the knowledge that I shall always remember _this_ moment. The moment you first spoke these words to me."

She smiles and kisses him in return, and they lose themselves for a little while. Eventually, she pulls away and rests her head on his shoulder again with a contented sigh.

"I think that's the least I've heard you speak over that amount of time. Not counting times when you were asleep, of course," she drily comments, nuzzling his chest.

"There is a time for words and a time for action," he simply replies, unperturbed by her playful teasing. "I think you'll agree that was no time for conversation."

"Eh, I've been with a guy or two who was pretty chatty in bed," she answers. She looks up at him again, a playful smirk on her face. "One guy insisted on telling me everything he was going to d—mm!"

He stops her words with a deep, possessive kiss. "I have no desire to hear tales of any of your past suitors," he says. She giggles, obviously knowing he would react that way, and he gives her a squeeze. "Am I that transparent?" he asks.

She kisses him once more, then turns to face away from him, suddenly tired. He spoons behind her, holding her close. "Only to me," she answers. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Cuddled together in the comfort of her bed, they drift to sleep, heedless of the bright sunshine streaming into the bedroom.

xXx

"Abbie! Hey, Abs, why are you still asl—oh! Whoa, oh! Warn a girl!" Jenny's voice startles them awake just over an hour later. All Abbie and Ichabod saw was a flash of dark hair and leather jacket, then the bedroom door slamming closed. A moment later, they hear, "Next time, put a tie on the door or something. Or at least _close_ the thing!"

"Sorry!" Abbie yells back, laughing. "We didn't exactly plan this!"

There is a moment of quiet, then Jenny's laughter reaches them through the door. "Get it, girl," she says, her voice fading as she begins to walk away. Then, so quiet Abbie and Crane aren't certain they were meant to hear, "About damn time though."


	19. Lying to Hospital Staff

"Sir... sir, you can't go back there!" The security guard moves to block Crane's path as he attempts to dash past him into the Emergency Room.

"But... Abbie... I must..." he stammers, overwrought. Abbie had been rushed over in the ambulance, Jenny at her side, after the demon tormenting them _this_ week knocked her unconscious with gashes in her side, forehead, and leg.

Crane followed the ambulance as best he could in Abbie's SUV, cursing the traffic laws as he barely adhered to them.

"Who are you here for?" the security guard asks.

"For whom am I here?" Crane automatically corrects before quickly answering, "Abigail Mills."

"Let me look..."

"Quickly, quickly," he prompts, trying to peek through the small windows in the doors. All he can see is a corridor and another set of doors. "Bugger," he mutters.

"Yeah, um, it says 'Only family' here," the guard replies.

"I _am_ family," Crane peevishly answers, straightening his shoulders and clasping his hands behind his back.

The guard crosses his arms across his chest. "Sure you are. I know Lieutenant Mills, and know she's black. You expect me to believe you, a white, British guy is _family_?"

Crane heaves a long sigh, both to buy time and because he truly is exasperated. And desperate. "Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm... I'm her husband," he answers, taking advantage of his hidden hands to swap his Masonic ring from his right hand to his left, turning it so the symbol is on the inside.

"Really," the guard replies. It is not a question.

"Yes, we were rather recently married," Crane insists. "Now, please, I would like to go back and be with my w-wife," he adds, gesturing with his left hand – pointedly with his left, in the hopes the guard sees the ring – to prompt the other man into action.

"I'm... gonna call back," the guard says, picking up the phone.

Crane sighs, realizing there was no way he was going to get back to his Lieutenant now.

"Yeah, hi, Dan. Is there a family member with Abigail Mills? Room 2A." He gives Crane a sideways look while he waits. "Yeah." Another pause. "No, just ask her if her sister has a husband. There's a guy out here who's not a very good liar, and for _some_ reason, he's dying to go back and see her."

Crane glowers at the guard, then begins pacing, his fingers flexing anxiously.

"Oh. Really? Thanks," the guard answers with a shrug. He pulls out a sticker and writes "2A" on it. "Okay, I guess you're not lying. I'll take you back."

 _Thank you, Miss Jenny!_ Crane snatches the sticker from the man, peels off the back, and sticks it to the front of his coat. As he does so, he cannot help remembering the time Abbie put her "I Voted" sticker on him after he accompanied her to the polls. The fond memory turns bittersweet as he allows worry to creep in. _What if we never...? No. Do not allow such thoughts, Ichabod._

"Here you go," the guard says, swiping his card through the slot to open the doors. "Sorry about the misunderstanding."

"Thank you," Crane absently replies, walking into the Emergency Ward. He locates room 2A and makes a beeline for it. He pauses outside, a curtain pulled across the opening giving him pause. He peeks around the edge and spies Jenny sitting on the edge of a chair. "Miss Jenny?"

She looks over. "Crane! It's all right, you can come in," she says, coming over. She takes his hand and pulls him inside.

He sees Abbie on the bed, attached to numerous monitors, with a doctor and a nurse working on her, and grips Jenny's hand harder instead of releasing it.

"She's going to be okay," Jenny says. He's not sure if the medical professionals have told her this or if she's just saying this to reassure both of them.

"Yes," he agrees, swallowing hard. _There was so much blood. More than one would think a person her size could contain. Or lose._ "Yes, she will. We... we are not fated to be separated this way. One of us will not bury the other. I... I promised her..."

"Let's sit," Jenny says, tugging his hand. He turns and sees a bandage on the inside of her elbow, and gives her a questioning look. "I gave her some of my blood," she explains. "Right after we got here."

Crane shakes his head in wonder. Of all the amazing things he's encountered in this century, modern medicine is truly the most impressive. "Does... does she need more? I am more than willing to..." He begins pulling his coat off.

Jenny chuckles, stilling him with a hand on his arm. "Do you even know what blood type you are?" she asks. "But no, if she needs more blood they can get some for her."

"Blood type? Ah, yes, I do recall reading something about that," he answers, straightening his coat. Then he deflates a little. "No, I do not know what my 'type' is."

They are quiet for a while, watching as the doctor and nurse tend to the unconscious Abbie, cleaning and stitching wounds and administering medicine.

"So I understand you're my brother-in-law now?" Jenny asks.

Crane clears his throat. "The... guard outside was proving difficult. He did not believe I was a member of your family."

Jenny nudges him with her shoulder once, then leans against him. "You are, Crane. You are."

-The Next Day-

Abbie was taken to a room after being patched up and declared "Stable". Jenny and Crane followed, neither of them willing to leave Abbie's side.

The duty nurse had taken one look at them and asked if they needed any medical attention, since they both looked pretty ragged as well. Jenny declined for both herself and Crane, saying there was nothing wrong with them a hot shower and a change of clothes wouldn't cure.

They wound up crashing in Abbie's room, Jenny curled on a chair, Crane opting to stretch out on his coat spread on the floor. The nurse didn't even try to make them go home.

The next morning, Abbie slowly blinks her eyes open, feeling heavy and drugged, but definitely alive. The nurse's quiet puttering didn't wake her, but the prodding at her wounds certainly did.

"Good morning," the nurse greets, whispering because Jenny and Crane are still sleeping.

"Hi," Abbie answers. "I take it I'm gonna live."

"Oh, yes. You'll be just fine in a few weeks," the nurse answers. "You've got some devoted people here, by the way," she adds, indicating the two sleeping bodies. "Your sister and husband haven't left your side since you got here, I'm told."

 _Husband?_ Abbie can hear deep, even breathing from the floor to her left and knows it is coming from Crane. She files that question under "Ask later" and closes her eyes again. "Yeah, they're pretty great."

"Get some more rest. My name is Amanda. I'll be your nurse this morning," she informs. She checks Abbie's IV, then quietly slips from the room.

xXx

When Abbie opens her eyes again, the first thing she sees is Ichabod Crane's face, staring down at her.

"Hey," she says, a smile creeping across her face. She feels a tightening around her hand and realizes he is holding it. She squeezes it back.

Jubilant, Crane leans down and unthinkingly kisses her, pressing his lips against hers for two seconds before pulling away and releasing her hand, jumping to his feet in wide-eyed disbelief at his own actions.

"Oh..." Abbie exhales once she's recovered from her shock. "I'm... happy to see you, too, Crane..." she adds, softer, looking away from him, her fingers coming up to touch her lips.

"Lieutenant, I apologize most wholeheartedly," he says, flustered. His cheeks are pink and his eyes dilated. He looks shocked, but slightly aroused. "But I was so worried... and then so relieved... _overjoyed_ to see your eyes open... I assure you I meant no disrespect and... did not mean to take advantage of your compromised state..."

"Kiss me again," she says.

"...simply so I could press my adv... what?"

"Again," she repeats, reaching for his hand.

"Miss Mills... Abbie," he amends, deciding if he's going to kiss her again, he should address her more familiarly (even though he knows her favorite is still "Lieutenant" and will likely always be), "are you certain? It... it cannot be taken back." He searches her face, for signs she isn't in complete control of her faculties. Her eyes are clear and focused. Focused on him.

"Do you want to kiss me again?" she asks. She can see the answer all over his face, but she needs to hear him say it. She's a bit surprised herself.

"Y-yes... I do," he whispers, his eyes dropping to her lips. He unconsciously licks his lower lip, remembering the feel of her lips on his. "But... your health... you should take care..."

"I want you to," she replies, her words nearly overlapping his. "And I don't want it to be taken back." She looks up into his eyes. "You were all I could think about, when I could think. I was so scared... not scared that I was going to die, but scared that I'd be leaving you alone... that I wouldn't see you... that you wouldn't see me..." She sighs. "I'm not making much sense."

He sits. "I understand everything you are saying, Abbie. Every time I am in danger, I always find myself thinking, 'I cannot leave Miss Mills.' Every time." He reaches over and gently, tenderly, cups her cheek in his hand, his thumb caressing her soft skin. He leans in and kisses her again, taking his time to do it _properly_.

Her eyes close as she allows herself to _feel_ for the first time in a long time. As she allows her heart to crack open and let him slip inside. "Thank you, Crane," she says when he pulls away. "Ichabod. That thing would have killed me if you hadn't been there."

"Well, Miss Jenny does get some credit as well. She stepped out to procure us some coffees," he explains, brushing her hair from her forehead, careful not to bump the bandage there.

She nods. "This is going to change things," she says. "This new shift in our association."

"Yes," he agrees. "It's going to make us stronger."

Abbie ponders that a moment, never having thought about it quite that way. "Yeah," she says, slowly nodding. "It is."


	20. Fake Couple

"Wait, so _no one_ at the resort can know?" Abbie asks, staring wide-eyed at Captain Reyes.

"Mills, think about it. You and Crane need to lure this... whatever it is... out into the open so you can deal with it." She pauses to sigh and take a sip of coffee, still adjusting to the truths she recently learned about what Abbie and Crane have really been up to and what is actually going on in Sleepy Hollow. She cannot dispute what she saw with her own eyes, especially because she nearly lost her head in the process. "You need to be convincing. If anyone there knows you _aren't_ really there for the 'Mend Your Marriage' weekend, the ruse may not work." She looks back and forth between them. They are both trying to cover up how extremely uncomfortable they are with this assignment. But she can see something else simmering just under the surface, so, just to poke a stick in the beehive, she adds, "Of course, if you're not comfortable, I'm sure Officer Hernande—"

"I assure you, Captain, Lieutenant Mills and I are more than capable of carrying out this task. There is no need to put an innocent, untested officer in danger, especially when he has no idea with what kind of perils we deal on a daily basis," Crane speaks up, trying very hard – and failing – to appear casual.

"Crane is right. If we pull another officer into this, he's going to need to be debriefed first to be fully up to speed. We don't have that kind of time, especially if we add in the inevitable freak-out time," Abbie agrees, doing a much better job at pretending to stay calm.

"I didn't freak out," Reyes comments.

"And that is why you are the captain," Crane replies, giving her an approving nod.

Abbie coughs, with the words "brown nose" possibly thrown in the middle. Crane raises a questioning eyebrow, and Reyes takes another sip of her coffee to hide her amusement. _They already behave like they're married. This should be easy for them._

"Go on," the captain says. "I think you have some shopping to do. He can't go to the Poconos dressed like... that." She waves one hand at Crane, indicating the standard period garb he still favors.

Crane scowls, and Abbie stands. "Thank you, ma'am," she says. She walks past Crane, who got to his feet when she did, and pats his lapel once. "It's only for the assignment," she says. "You can return to your Yankee Doodle costume when we get back."

They exit, Crane muttering under his breath. Reyes hears the words "Yankee Doodle" repeated in a very unpleasant tone, followed by "costume" said with equal derision. Just before the door closes, she makes out something about "infernal skinny jeans". She shakes her head, a slight smile on her face, wondering when they will see what everyone else sees. _I wonder if that's part of the Witness package._

xXx

"Stop squirming," Abbie says for the tenth time. "We're nearly there, and if you keep behaving like this is your first time in cargo shorts and a modern shirt, we're not going to find this monster, because I'm gonna leave your skinny butt in the car while I lounge by the pool."

"This _is_ my first time in cargo shorts and a modern shirt," Crane mutters, looking down at his feet. "And these _sandals_ are ridiculous. They provide neither adequate coverage nor support."

"Sandals aren't worn for coverage or support. They're to keep your feet cool and, in my case, cute," she says, wiggling her freshly-pedicured toes.

He purses his lips, resolutely keeping his eyes pointed forward. Abbie had arrived to pick him up wearing a white halter-style tank top and khaki shorts which expose _far_ too much of her rather shapely legs. He caught himself staring at her thighs more times than he would care to admit during the drive, so now he is trying to be extra careful. He also resorts to complaining, mostly as a distraction. "I feel ridiculous."

"You look good," she reassures him, turning into the parking lot. Abbie was surprised at how handsome he looked. He didn't show her any of the clothes when he tried them on, despite her protestations. So when he walked out of the cabin looking... like an attractive, modern man, displaying legs that were not the toothpicks she had been imagining and arms that were more muscular than she realized, she had to clench her jaw together to keep it from dropping. He doesn't just look good. He looks _good._ Even his longish hair, which had been trimmed to remove the damaged ends, looks less _Paul Revere_ and more _Paul Mitchell_ when paired with the new garments.

"You are certain?" he asks, looking genuinely concerned.

She parks the car. "Yes," she simply answers. They see another couple walking past, an older couple, who happen to be wearing matching outfits.

"Miss Mills, what...?" Crane asks, looking from the couple to his partner, his expression incredulous.

"Oh, jeez, I don't think I can even explain that," Abbie laughs. "Whatever floats your boat, I guess."

"Floats..." he softly repeats.

"It means, um, 'If doing that makes you happy, have at it.' Something like that, anyway." He nods and she unbuckles her seat belt. "You ready, Mr. Graham?"

"As I shall ever be... Mrs. Graham," he replies.

 _Am_ I _ready?_ Abbie takes a quick, deep breath. "Okay. Let's go check in."

xXx

"Both couples were found murdered, in bed, always after a successful counseling session. One pair had just finished having intercourse and the other was mid... you know." Abbie looks up. "I'm paraphrasing, here."

"Obviously," Crane replies, meticulously withdrawing clothes from his suitcase, re-folding them, and putting them away. "Coitus interruptus," he mutters, frowning at a pair of swim trunks.

"It's pretty sad actually," she comments, leaning back and stretching her arms up over her head. "These couples come here to try to strengthen their marriages, and once they start showing signs of progress, _bam._ "

"Indeed," he quietly agrees.

"Hey, I'm sorry," she quickly apologizes, standing and going over to him. She hates it when he is reminded of Katrina, but only because she hates seeing him unhappy.

"I was bound to be reminded of her at some point during our stay here," he says, giving his partner a small smile. "Best to get it in the open and out of the way, at least between us. You know I have made my peace with it."

She reaches up and rests her hand on his chest for a second. "I know," she says, giving him a pat before dropping her hand. It's been nearly two years, and Crane has been good for about a year now. Abbie knows that he will always have a small place in his heart reserved for the Katrina he once knew, the "before" Katrina, but he has no more guilt over what happened with her or Henry. "Are you almost done there? We're supposed to go down to that dinner thing in, like, ten minutes."

"Already?" he asks, looking at the clock. He raises an eyebrow at Abbie. "I suppose we will be force to _mingle_ and make _small talk_."

"I know, it sucks, right? Just stick to the stories we discussed in the car and you'll be fine, _Sebastian_ ," she says, grinning. She picked his name. She wouldn't let him choose hers, but he did suggest "Graham" for their surname.

"Do you remember everything, _Paulette_?" he counters. "I would hate for you to slip up."

"Hey, I'm not the one who can't tell a convincing lie," she says. "I may not have an eidetic memory, but I can improvise as well as Bird when I have to."

His brow furrows a moment. "Ah. Charlie Parker," he declares, deciphering her meaning. "Yes, well, I will simply follow your lead should the need arise, Lieutenant."

"Good," she replies, sliding her feet back into her sandals. "Let's go."

xXx

There are only two other couples participating in the program this week. The resort has experienced a sharp drop in reservations because of the deaths. Abbie was surprised the owners were continuing the program at all, but since it was the primary thing keeping this particular resort running, they were loath to abandon the program.

One couple is older and are sitting at a table, not talking. The other is about the same age as Abbie and Ichabod and seem to be putting on a show of how in love they are.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Crane murmurs to Abbie. She follows his gaze to see the canoodling couple.

"She's not protesting a damn thing, by the looks of it," she counters.

"What I meant was—"

"I know what you meant," she laughs. "All right, Gertrude, let's sit down. I'm hungry."

They sit at the only available table, between the other two couples. "Hello," Crane greets the older couple.

They look surprised at his friendliness, and manage nods and weak smiles in return. As they wait for the facilitator, Abbie surveys the room, noting exits, obstacles, and things that could be used as weapons if need be.

"It seems rather quiet," Ichabod murmurs. "I have no experience with these sorts of things. Is this normal?"

"I really don't know either," she answers. "I've only been to police seminars, and those tend to be either boring as hell or rowdy and testosterone-fueled, depending on the subject presented." She reaches for one of the water glasses on the table. "Seems pretty normal." She lifts her glass and catches sight of the gold band on her left ring finger. It looks odd. She rarely wears jewelry, and honestly never entertained the thought of a wedding ring. _Crane's looks good on him,_ she notes, her eyes drifting to the thicker band on his long finger, glinting on his strong hand.

"Okay, have you all met?" A bubbly woman enters the room, talking loudly and enthusiastically. "No? Goodness, not even talking. Well, we'll take care of that in a jiffy. I'll start. I'm Liberty and I am your facilitator. That's just a fancy way of saying 'Activities Director', really," she says, laughing.

Crane gives Abbie that sideways-and-downward look over his collar, clearly saying "This woman's name is Liberty?" without using words. Abbie nods once, very slightly, indicating that she will discuss this with him later. "Discuss", of course, meaning "let Crane rant for five minutes".

"Okay. Let's go around the room and introduce ourselves. Say your name, your occupation, and how you met," Liberty says. She locks in on Abbie and Crane. "Let's start with the middle table!"

Crane groans only loud enough for Abbie to hear, and she has to dig her nails into her palm to stop herself from laughing. "My name is Paulette Graham and I am an editor." She looks at Ichabod.

"I am Sebastian Graham and I am a curator at our local history museum," he contributes.

"Ooo, I love your accent! Are you English?" Liberty interjects.

"Yes, well spotted," he answers.

"And how did the two of you meet? I bet it's a really interesting story," she says.

"Well, I hope you won't be too disappointed," Abbie replies. "We ran into each other at a diner. Like, literally."

"I didn't see her due to her diminutive stature," Crane adds. "I very nearly wound up with her take-out meal all over the front of my shirt."

"Oh, that is so cute!" Liberty gushes. "I want to hear more of this story later," she adds, pointing at them. "All right. Next." She turns to the older couple. "Please, introduce yourselves."

xXx

"Well that was only mildly painful," Abbie says, collapsing on the bed.

The only bed, she suddenly realizes. And the only other pieces of furniture are the desk and its chair.

"Agreed. You and I are not even married and we have a stronger relationship than both of the other couples," Crane comments, sitting in the chair. "Likely due to our bond as Witnesses," he adds, almost absently. He looks at the clock, then at her. It's getting late. "If you will give me a pillow and one of the blankets, I will sleep on the fl—"

"Crane, this is a king-sized bed. There is plenty of room for both of us," she interrupts.

"But..."

"It's fine. Look, you sleep over there, I'll sleep over here, and there will still be a good foot of space in between us. We can build a... wall of pillows in between if you think it will help."

He smiles a little. "I don't think that will be necessary."

Abbie gets up and flips her suitcase open. "Okay then. I'm going to get ready for bed. I'll be in the bathroom, but I'll holler before I come out."

"Why—? Oh. Right," Ichabod replies. _She does not wish to embarrass me should I be changing clothes._

Twenty minutes later, Abbie is crawling under the covers and reaching for the remote. Crane tried very hard not to stare at her, but it was difficult. He's never seen her like this. Certainly they've slept in one another's company before, but it had usually been accidental, both still in their street clothes, usually slumped on opposite ends of the couch with a movie playing. He's never seen her when she has _prepared_ to sleep. She is wearing a simple tank top and shorts made of some very soft-looking material, and her hair is covered by a silk scarf. He had never thought of her as "adorable" before, but that was the word that came into his mind when he saw her.

For his part, Crane was clad in a pair of soft cotton shorts and a t-shirt, his hair loose. He gingerly slipped into bed, staying close to the edge, suddenly wondering if he will get any sleep.

"This is weird," she says after a minute, her eyes trained on the TV while she flips through the channels. She settles on a late night talk show and reaches for her iPad.

"An apt word to describe the current situation," he agrees. He picks up the book he brought along.

"You could just say 'yeah'," she chuckles. "You like to use ten words when one would be enough."

"That was only eight," he protests, glancing over. "What are you doing?"

"It's a game. Words With Friends. You make words and score points. How are you not aware of this game?" she asks.

"I'm afraid I haven't paid much attention," he says, leaning over some more. "Is your opponent Master Corbin?"

"Yeah, that's Joe. I'm also playing games with Jenny and Macey," she says.

"Oh, how is Miss Macey?" he asks.

"Good. She misses New York, but likes it in Seattle." She looks up at Crane and sees how his eyes are alight with interest. "You want to play?"

His gaze shifts from her screen to her face. "I do not have an iPad."

"You have a SmartPhone," she says, holding her hand out.

He quickly grabs it from the nightstand and puts it in her hand.

xXx

Abbie wakes up the next morning feeling very good. Warm. Cozy. She doesn't remember the last time she slept so well.

Then she realizes she's not alone in this bed, and this bed is not _her_ bed. _Oh yeah. The investigation._

She shifts a little and feels long, strong arms tighten around her. Her eyes open and she finds herself looking at Crane's neck.

_We must have drifted together while we slept. And now I can't move._

She closes her eyes again, allowing herself a moment to just enjoy being in someone's arms. A soft sigh escapes, and that's the moment Crane chooses to stir.

In a sleepy haze, he cuddles her closer and nuzzles her forehead. "Mmm," he hums, slowly awakening.

Abbie stiffens, figuring he's probably still half asleep; figuring he may be thinking he's back in his bed with Katrina.

He opens his eyes. "Abbie." He doesn't sound surprised to find her there.

Her eyes open immediately and she looks up at him. "We must have..."

"Yes," he finishes. "Oh." He moves his arms, releasing her from his hold.

She slides away, wondering if he came over to her side of the bed or she went to his. When she gets up, she can see they were both smack dab in the middle. _I don't even want to think about what that means._

"We have our session at ten," she softly tells him, grabs some things from her suitcase, then disappears into the bathroom.

xXx

"What initially drew you to Paulette?" the counselor, a soft-spoken man named Owen, asks, leaning forward to look at Crane.

Abbie turns to face him as well, curious about what he is going to say. _Will he spin some tale? He's not a very good liar..._

"When I first saw her, I was... I had just experienced a bit of a trauma," Crane begins. "You do not need the details – Paulette knows them, of course – but suffice it to say, my first sight of her was a bit of a shock."

 _Yeah, you thought I was an emancipated slave._ Abbie's lips twitch and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. Her fingers absently pick at the hem of the sundress she chose to wear today.

He glances over at her. When he speaks, his voice is soft, with an undeniable earnestness. "I thought she was the most singularly beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even through my haze of confusion and... disorientation, I had never before seen someone so exquisite." Abbie bites her lower lip and looks away, hiding her shock behind a guise of embarrassment. "That opinion remains unchanged," Crane quietly adds.

"That's excellent," Owen comments, nodding and scribbling on his notepad. "Paulette, what attracted you to Sebastian?"

Abbie takes a deep breath. She expected the question but was so thrown by Crane's answer that her own seems to have momentarily fled. "To be honest, when I first saw him, I thought he was... eccentric. He was unlike anyone I had ever met," she answers, smiling a little. "Crazy" was the actual first impression, but she can't say that here. "I wasn't sure about him at first, but his eyes... he keeps everything there. It didn't take long for me to warm up to him." She finds herself looking over at him, into the eyes that were displaying nothing but honesty and admiration when he was speaking of her a minute ago. "I mean, he's handsome, obviously, but... we had one conversation, and that was all it took. His eyes, his words, his gentlemanly manner..." she drifts off and looks away, unable to keep looking at him while saying such things about him.

"Interesting," Owen replies, making notes.

"May I add to my answer?" Crane asks. The counselor nods. "I simply do not wish for you – or Paulette – to think that my initial interest in her was purely physical. The first time she spoke to me I could tell she was a very intelligent, clever woman." He smiles. "A woman not to be crossed," he adds. When he looks at her again, he can tell she is remembering the same thing he is – her telling him she was authorized to shoot him. "I immediately held her in the highest esteem."

"All right, duly noted," Owen says. "Now, I'd like for each of you to tell me two of your favorite things about your spouse. One simple or superficial, one deeper or more meaningful."

"Shall I go first again?" Crane asks.

"If you like."

He thinks a moment, weighing his options. "Her... eyes," he answers, not looking up. He quickly adds, "And her voice. She has the most beautiful singing voice."

"Her eyes?" Owen asks, having noted the evasive nature of the other man's first reply. "Are you sure?"

Crane looks up, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. He sighs. "Her backside." Abbie actually snorts a laugh, quickly covering her mouth. "Not that her eyes aren't lovely, but..."

Owen tilts his head. "But...?" he prompts

Crane's cheeks color. "She often insists upon wearing these... snug-fitting trousers," he sighs, embarrassed, but now that he knows the counselor can see right through him when he attempts a falsehood, he may as well confess everything and face the brunt of his partner's wrath later.

The counselor says nothing, waiting for Crane to explain.

"Where I come from, such garments are... uncommon," he explains, attempting to be vague but still truthful. "And there was one occasion early in our association where I needed to boost her up to reach an item, and her derrière was right there..." he gestures with his hands, "my face was nearly pressed against it, despite my efforts to the contrary. After that, I discovered my eyes drifting to that part of her more and more." He pauses, afraid to look at Abbie. "I feel like such a cad."

"Why?" Owen asks.

Crane is taken aback by the question. "Because she deserves better than that. Better than me... _ogling_ her every chance I get. I do not wish for her to think I only desire her for her form. There is no one I respect or admire more than Paulette." His cheeks are on fire and he can feel Abbie looking at him. He can't bring himself to turn his head.

"Nothing wrong with a little ogling within the bonds of marriage," Owen comments.

"May I continue to the next part of the question?" Crane asks, trying to dig out of the hole in which he has found himself.

"Of course. We're coming back to this point though," the counselor says, making a note on his pad.

"I love her dedication and commitment to everything she does. I have been... let down by some people very close to me on more than one occasion. Paulette has never disappointed me. I fear I have disappointed her at least twice, but she has always come through for me. She is always there for me." He finally looks at her. "Always," he repeats. The expression on her face is not what he was expecting. She looks surprised but not angry or uncomfortable at all. It almost looks like she is truly seeing him for the first time. Or allowing herself to see him in a different light.

"Before we hear Paulette's answers to these questions, I would like you to tell me one thing that you do _not_ like about her," Owen says. "It can be big or small, but please be honest."

"She keeps everyone at arms' length." Crane's answer is almost too quick. "Even me, sometimes. Even her sister. She has very real reasons for being slow to trust, but it hurts to be shut out." His voice is quiet as he turns to face her. "I understand why. I truly do. And I know I've let you down. But—"

"I know," Abbie replies before he can finish his sentence, partially because she _does_ know what he wants to say, but also because she fears he is dangerously close to saying too much and blowing their cover. "And you're right." She glances at the counselor, who nods. "I'll try—I _will_ do better." She doesn't say anything about the fate of the world depending on their bond staying rock-solid, on the two of them being in sync as much as possible, but Crane knows. She can tell he knows.

"Thank you," he answers, smiling softly.

"Now, Paulette. Your turn. Things you like about Sebastian, one small, one big," the counselor prompts.

"His hands," Abbie's answer is immediate. So much so that Crane nearly chokes on the water he is drinking. "I know you were probably expecting me to say 'eyes' after my previous comment, but his hands are... amazing. They almost tell me more than his eyes. Sometimes he tries to hide his moods, like when he's uncomfortable or anxious. But his hands give him away."

"Interesting," Owen says, unable to help looking at Crane's hands, noting the nervous twitching before he collects himself and pointedly clasps them together.

She looks down at her own hands. "They're distracting. Gigantic. Beautiful." She pauses a moment, then quietly adds, "Sinful. Sometimes I find myself imagining them, um, touching me," she admits. "I mean, obviously he's touched me before," she quickly adds. He has touched her. Her hands, her elbow, her shoulder. Her thigh once, quite by accident and over her jeans. "But sometimes my mind wanders. Sometimes it wanders to naughty places."

"Sebastian, you look surprised by this," Owen comments.

"She's never told me," Crane replies. _Of course she hasn't. Why would she tell me such a thing?_

"And I suppose she knew all about your affinity for her rear end?" the counselor asks, angling his head.

"Of course not," Crane answers, quickly glancing at Abbie, then looking down.

"No, I didn't."

Owen leans back in his chair. "Before we move on to the rest of Paulette's answers, I think we need to pause for a second." He looks at Crane. "You say she deserves better than to be objectified." Crane nods. "Don't you think she deserves to know you find her desirable? It's obvious you love her, that's as plain as day. As long as she knows that, and I think she does, it's perfectly all right to lust after your own wife's body. Healthy, even." Crane shifts in his seat, nodding again. "You've got Paulette on quite the pedestal here, Sebastian. That's not entirely a bad thing, but it can be dangerous."

"I understand," Crane replies, the counselor's assessment of his love for his partner being "obvious" ringing through his brain. His heart is pounding and he is beginning to wonder if the air conditioning in this room is malfunctioning, because he feels overly warm. _Is it possible that it has been obvious to everyone save the two of us?_

Owen turns to face Abbie. "And you keep things close to the vest," he says. "I can see how much you are struggling to open up here, and I appreciate your stepping out of your comfort zone to do so. I'm sure Sebastian appreciates it as well, but the advice I gave him also applies to you. If you appreciate him physically, don't be afraid to tell him. That's an easy way to start opening yourself up to him more." He leans forward and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "Besides, we men like to feel desirable, too, you know."

Abbie smiles despite herself. "Yes, I know. It honestly is something of which I am well aware. My... reticence to let people in. I know I can trust Sebastian. More than anyone, really. But, you know... old habits."

"It's a lousy excuse, but I'll accept it for now because you _are_ aware of the problem," Owen replies with a smile. "Now. Back to your answers."

Abbie takes a deep breath. "He has an amazing mind. Remembers _everything_ , which is handy... unless we are arguing." She snorts a dry chuckle. "He speaks multiple languages. He's really an incredible person. But..."

"But?" Owen prompts, curious. Crane looks interested as well.

"But I think my favorite thing is seeing him make new discoveries. Especially when he likes them." The counselor looks puzzled, so Abbie tries to elaborate without giving away Crane's truth. "He comes from a very rural area of England. Not a lot of technology, not much contact with the outside world. So things like the internet and..." she smiles, "donut holes were fairly unfamiliar."

"Interesting," Owen says.

"The trauma he mentioned earlier," Abbie presses on, trying to stave off questions, "that's how he wound up here. It wasn't really his, um, decision."

"But after meeting Paulette, I am very grateful for everything that has happened that led me to her," Crane adds.

"So watching him make these discoveries... it's like... I hesitate to draw this parallel, but it's like watching a puppy find his way in the world. I mean, these occasions are becoming fewer and farther between the longer he is here, but I love those moments. Oh!" She suddenly sits up straight as she thinks of something to add. "And when he has occasion to show _me_ something new... that's amazing, too. His skill set is so completely different from mine and so unique that it doesn't happen often, but his face lights up just as much when he can teach me something." She glances at Crane, then Owen. "I want him to teach me how to use a sword, actually."

"You do?" Crane asks.

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?" Abbie counters.

Crane mulls it over, thinking about how hands-on that would be. How he could wrap his arms around her to correct her posture, place his hands over hers on the hilt of the sword... his lips curl into a wry smile. "Are you certain this isn't simply an excuse to get me to put my hands on you?"

Abbie laughs, putting her hand over her mouth. "Maybe it is," she admits, biting her lower lip.

Owen smiles at both of them. "And now, Paulette, your last answer?" he asks, steering them back.

Her smile drops. "Oh yeah," she sighs. "He probably already knows what it is, too." She can see Crane slightly nodding out of the corner of her eye, and bluntly states, "He can be a selfish, arrogant asshole who acts impulsively with little thought for consequences."

Crane continues to nod, looking down. "She is correct," he admits.

"He's getting better about it. But there was a time, before we were married," she almost stumbles over the word, "where I honestly wondered where his brain was about half the time."

 _Katrina._ The name hangs heavy, unspoken, in the room. They had agreed not to mention Crane's marriage to the witch or the fact that he was married when they met, just to simplify matters.

"There were... outside influences involved," Crane says, surprising Abbie. "Sometimes I fear one of those influences held a little too much sway over me. I was wrong, have apologized and been forgiven several times, but as Paulette said before: old habits do indeed die hard."

 _Did he just admit to wondering if Katrina had him under some kind of spell?_ Abbie wondered the same thing a few times. She and Jenny even talked about it once, after too many beers too late at night.

"Well, it sounds like your eyes have been opened to a few things," Owen says. "It also sounds like the two of you are on the right track to becoming closer than ever before."

"Yes, thank you," Crane replies. Abbie nods.

"I just have one more exercise for you before we finish. I want you to turn your chairs and face one another. Then I want you to gaze into each other's eyes. Focus mainly on your partner's left eye, because that one is linked to your emotional center."

 _That sounds like bullshit, but okay,_ Abbie thinks as she turns to face Crane.

"How long do we need to do this?" she asks, more anxious about this than she would have expected.

"Not long," Owen answers. "Does this make you uncomfortable?"

"Honestly, a little," she responds with a nervous laugh. "I guess it's that 'openness' thing I'm supposed to be working on."

"Being vulnerable can be scary," Owen agrees. "But the one person to whom you should be able to fully open up is your mate."

Abbie nods once, then settles into her chair. She feels a little foolish, but presses on.

Crane looks a little skittish as well, his large hands spread on his knees, holding tightly to keep his fingers from fidgeting.

She slowly looks up into his blue eyes, her heart pounding, unreasonably afraid of what she'll see there. _Get a grip, Mills. They're just eyes._

 _Oh, dear._ She is immediately drawn in, never having experienced this level of intimacy before. She notes each little striation and speckle in his irises, including the blotch of green in his left eye she never really noticed before.

Crane's lips slightly part, his breathing slowing as he loses himself in the liquid mahogany of her large, beautiful eyes. He knows them well, down to her long, black lashes. He can feel his heartbeat speed up a little as he gazes into them, knowing they will be haunting his dreams tonight.

After about 30 seconds, Owen softly speaks. "Very good, Mr. and Mrs. Graham. We'll meet again tomorrow."

It takes them a couple of seconds to regroup. Abbie blinks first, dropping her gaze down to her hands, which Crane is now holding.

She has no recollection of him taking her hands.

"Thank you, Owen," Crane replies. He clears his throat and he and Abbie stand. He releases one of her hands, but continues holding the other.

Hand in hand, they walk back to their room in silence. Even if they were not afraid to speak, neither would know what to say.

What Abbie _does_ know is that Crane was being completely truthful in there, and apart from the lies she told to maintain their cover, she was as well. It was only fair.

And if she is completely honest, it felt good to admit some of those things.

Crane releases her hand only to unlock the door and open it for her.

The door closes with a _click._

Abbie turns to look at him.

They stare at one another for three seconds before simultaneously moving towards each other, lips messily crashing together in a haphazard, almost desperate kiss. Their aim is off just a little and their teeth lightly collide, but they adjust after a moment, Abbie's hands coming up to thread into his hair, holding his head while she simultaneously attempts to climb him, to get closer, aided by his strong arms around her middle.

"Abbie," he pulls his lips away to growl her name, but resumes kissing her immediately. "I meant everything I said in there."

"I know," she replies, "Me too."

He lifts his head, staring wide-eyed at her. "You did?"

She nods. "I... yeah, I did. I... I didn't realize it till we were in there."

"Same," he agrees, kissing her once more because he simply must. "I think... I think these hands need to find that backside," he adds, sliding his hands down to cup a cheek in each one. He groans and deeply kisses her.

She moans in response, pushing him backwards until his legs bump into the bed. He tightens his hold on her and pulls her down onto the bed, rolling so she is beneath him.

"Abbie, I..." he begins, but a sound interrupts him. "What was that?"

She is suddenly on alert. "I heard it, too," she whispers. "The reports said that the couples were all found..." she looks around with just her eyes, indicating the bed.

Ichabod nods just as another ominous creak reaches their ears. "Where is your firearm, Lieutenant?"

"Strapped to my thigh," she answers, moving her right leg so he knows which one.

"Patience," he whispers, leaning down to kiss her while his left hand slides down to her leg, fingers scrabbling for the hem of her sundress. He moves to kiss her ear. "With what is it loaded?"

"Hollow silver tips, filled with holy water," she breathes, her fingers sliding into his hair. She moans as he slides his hand up her thigh, under her skirt. It is partly to keep up the ruse, but partly because _damn._

The creaks – footsteps – are coming closer. Crane has the pistol in his hand, but keeps it hidden beneath Abbie's dress.

Just as he hears heavy breathing that he _knows_ is not coming from either of them, Abbie's eyes widen and she goes very still. "Now." Her voice is barely audible, but it is loud enough for him.

Crane rolls to the side, draws, and fires. It lands a bit wide, passing completely through the horrid creature's shoulder, leaving a smoking hole and causing it to shriek in anger. Crane tosses the gun to Abbie, knowing she is a much better shot (especially with a modern firearm). She squeezes off two shots.

They hit the creature square in the forehead. It drops to the ground, screaming and shaking, a foul-smelling smoke rising from the wounds. Abbie crawls to the edge of the bed and empties three more rounds into its chest.

"Just to be safe," she says, looking at her partner.

"Well done, Lieutenant," he replies.

She smiles. "Thank you." Her smile falls. "Kind of a mood killer, that," she drily adds, nodding at the demon, who is now melting into a fetid pile of acidic green goo.

"Indeed," he agrees, standing and offering her his hand. "I do hope we will be able to... pick up where we left off in the very near future," he says, caressing her cheek after helping her to her feet.

"I would think this place owes us a free night," she answers. "In a _different_ room."

xXx

All the business and law enforcement matters were dealt with the previous afternoon. The demon was explained away as a mentally unstable but crafty drifter who Abbie arranged to have carted away by the authorities out of sight of the hotel guests. Thankfully, the puddle of demon goo in their room evaporated, leaving only a faint pungent odor that could easily be attributed to the drifter's lack of personal hygiene.

The overjoyed hotel owner was more than happy to allow Abbie and Crane to stay another night. He even gave them an upgraded room, complete with a double whirlpool tub and a balcony overlooking the lake.

They made good and thorough use of the room, and Crane finds himself smiling much more than he normally does this morning, even as they walk through the lobby to return to Sleepy Hollow and their strange, dangerous lives. His Lieutenant is truly his and he is hers, and though their lives are in constant peril, it is reason enough to bring a smile to his lips.

"Excuse me," Owen's voice calls to Abbie and Crane. "Mr. and Mrs. Graham… oh, that's not your real names…"

Abbie turns. "Abbie Mills," she introduces herself to the counselor. "Westchester County Sheriff's Department. This is Ichabod Crane, Special Consultant, and my partner."

Owen shakes both their hands, unable to wipe the look of surprise from his face. "So… you're not married?"

"No," she answers, shaking her head. "Not to each other and not to anyone else."

"Wow. I never would have guessed… I was so sure that the two of you were…"

"Soulmates?" Crane provides, looking fondly down at his partner. His lover. His love.

"Yes," the counselor agrees. "Are you even dating?"

Abbie takes Crane's hand. "We are now," she says with a laugh.

Ichabod smiles and adds, "Have a good day, sir. Best of luck with the others," as they turn to exit the hotel.


	21. Roommates AU

The sound of the door opening at 3 a.m. rouses Ichabod Crane from his sleep. He's always been a light sleeper, and his roommate knows this, yet she seems to take great delight in _not_ being quiet when she returns home from one of her ridiculously late dates.

 _I don't know why she simply does not spend the night_. He scowls and turns over, pulling the thick comforter up to cover his ears and eyes, blocking any ambient light in the room that he just cannot seem to be able to get dark enough. He curls his lanky frame into itself, ignoring the familiar gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he tries not to think about his roommate's frequent nights out.

He sighs, exhaling heavily through the little breathing hole in his blanket cocoon.

It grows quiet again, and he relaxes.

Then the toilet flushes. And the lid slams down on the seat, as though it had been dropped.

"Shit!" A whisper-shout.

_At least she's not intentionally torturing me._

xXx

"Did I wake you last night?" Abbie sheepishly asks the next morning. It is still technically morning; eleven a.m. on a Saturday.

"You mean earlier this morning?" Ichabod counters, sipping his tea. He's not trying to be peevish, but he's tired from his interrupted sleep.

"I did wake you. I'm sorry. The lid to the toilet slipped out of my hand and dropped."

"I gathered as much, judging by the expletive that followed," he replies.

"Sorry. I know you're not a very heavy sleeper," she says.

"Why don't you simply stay overnight instead of coming home in the small hours?" he asks, idly checking his phone.

She sighs. "I don't have to explain my behavior to you. I was apologizing because I know you're a light sleeper, and now you're _judging_ me?"

He holds up his hand. "No judgment. Simply curiosity. But you're correct: It is not my business. Forgive me." He drinks the rest of his tea and stands to take it to the kitchen.

Sometimes, he thinks about moving. He's even perused available apartments. He'd really like a place of his own.

But he can't afford it right now. This place is clean and conveniently located. And Abbie Mills is a good roommate 95% of the time.

He just wishes he could stop the little stabs of jealousy that have been cropping up more and more when she goes out and stays out until some ungodly hour.

 _At least if she spent the night with one of her gentleman callers I would get an uninterrupted night's sleep._ He stares at the wall as he washes his cup. _No, I wouldn't, because I'd be listening for her to come home and then seething about the fact that she is with some man._

"Crane? You trying to wash the pattern off of that mug?" Abbie's voice breaks into his reverie.

"Hmm? Oh. I guess I was lost in thought," he replies, turning the water off. He turns and sees her offering him the dishtowel. "Thank you," he says, drying his mug and putting it away.

"Something on your mind?" she asks, leaning back against the small bistro-sized table in their small kitchen. She angles her head to the side, curious.

 _You._ "Oh, just making a mental shopping list. I need to pick up a few things," he answers, thinking quickly. It's not a _total_ lie. He does need shampoo and he's been meaning to look for a new pair of boots.

"Oh," she replies, looking a little disappointed. This throws Crane a little. He can't fathom why she would be disappointed in his answer. "Hey, do you—" Her cell phone ringing makes her abandon whatever it was she was going to ask, and she gives him a small apologetic smile as she swipes her finger across the screen to take the call. "Hey," she greets the caller. "No, I'm up. I feel fine... why, are _you_ hungover?" Her laughter fades as she walks to her room to continue her conversation.

xXx

When Ichabod returns home with his purchases, Abbie is just getting ready to leave. He can't help but wonder if she goes out so much because she finds his company unpleasant. Outside of watching _The Walking Dead_ and the occasional movie night, she keeps to herself most weeknights.

"Going out?" he asks, knowing full well it is an obvious question. He leans against the doorway to the bathroom, where Abbie appears to be in some sort of quandary about what to do with her hair.

"Yeah. Calvin's in town. He texted just after you left." She gathers up her hair, holding the mass of it up behind her head, pauses, then lets it drop, tumbling over her shoulders.

"Ah, Mr. Riggs," he comments, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

"You don't like him," she says, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"My opinion is irrelevant," he returns.

"He's a photojournalist, so he's out of town a lot," she continues. "Though I don't know why I feel the need to defend him to you..."

"Indeed," he agrees. "I hope you have a pleasant time," he adds, turning to leave her to her preparations.

"You staying in?" she asks.

He pauses, then turns. "Yes. I believe I have worked up enough fortitude to finally watch the season finale of _Outlander,_ " he answers. "Perhaps."

She snorts a laugh. "You should go out. Find a girl. Or a guy. Whatever you like," she says. "It's not healthy staying in all the time."

"Thank you, Miss Mills, but I assure you I am quite content," he insists. "I am currently not interested in going out and _finding_ a young lady with whom to occupy my time, or worse, _hook up._ "

"Dude, how long has it been since you and Katrina broke up? Six months? You need to get back out there."

He gives her a sad smile. "I assure you I am well and truly over the end of my relationship with Katrina. I am simply enjoying my life on my own terms at the moment."

She looks like she almost believes him. "Right," she finally says.

As he turns to walk away again, he almost believes it himself.

xXx

"I am simply tired of the company she chooses to keep, that's all. Detective Morales. That idiot Hawley. The so-called 'Orion'. I seriously doubt that is the name with which his parents christened him," Crane says into the phone.

"Aw, come on, Crane. Calvin's not so bad," Joe Corbin, a mutual friend of Abbie's and Crane's, counters. Joe was the one who introduced them after he heard they were both having difficulty finding a good place to live.

Crane sighs. "He is certainly preferable to the other three, which is faint praise at best. Morales was always looking at her like she was his next meal. Hawley... well, you know how _he_ behaved..."

Joe snorts on the other end of phone.

"And that Orion person was simply insane," Ichabod continues. "At least Mr. Riggs is gainfully employed and seems to be interested in her for reasons other than her admittedly impressive physical assets."

The silence is heavy for about ten seconds before Joe speaks.

"Man, just tell her you like her," he finally says. "Stop torturing yourself."

"What?" Crane exclaims. He begins sputtering clumsy, half-formed protests. "I never said— I don't— How did y—"

Joe laughs. "It's not obvious at all or anything."

There is another long pause. "What?"

"Crane," Joe says, "Your jealousy is really transparent. That's all I'm saying."

"I'm not jealous."

Joe says nothing.

"Perhaps I am a little jealous," Crane admits.

Joe sighs, and Crane can almost see him running his hand through his hair. "Tell her."

"Why would I do such a thing?" he asks. "It would be fruitless and the result would be quite awkward for both of us."

"What makes you say that?"

"She couldn't possibly be interested in me that way," Crane replies. "I am nothing like those others."

"Okay, first: don't sell yourself short. I mean, you're not _my_ type, but I see the looks you get from women."

"I—"

" _Second_ ," Joe continues, talking over him, "don't you think that's a little insulting to Abbie? Give her a little credit, man. Just because you're not super buff like Luke or Hawley or... whatever you think those other two have that you don't doesn't mean she's not into you. You say you're nothing like those others. That's a good thing. You ever think there's a reason why things didn't work out with them?"

"She's out with Calvin Riggs right now," Crane points out.

"Yeah, and he's here and then he's gone," Joe counters. "Not the point. He won't be in it for the long haul and you know it."

Crane ponders his friend's words for a few moments. "You think so?"

"I've known Abbie a long time. She appreciates honesty. Just be honest with her," Joe says.

"All right. I will... take it under advisement." The lock on the front door rattles and Crane sharply looks in that direction. "She's home already? Must go." He quickly disconnects the call in the middle of Joe's farewell and sets his phone on the table.

The door closes a little harder than necessary, and Abbie exhales a long sigh. She walks into the living room.

"I knew you weren't going to watch it," she says, looking at the television. He's watching a rerun of _Chopped_ on the Food Network.

"I had every intention of doing so, but I received a call," he answers, pointing to his phone.

Abbie slowly nods. "Mmm-hmm." She sits on the other end of the couch.

"I was just speaking with Joe Corbin, if you must know," Ichabod insists.

She laughs. "I believe you. Just giving you a hard time."

"Forgive me, but it is only just past nine. Shouldn't you still be on your date?"

She frowns. "There was no date. He had to cancel. Said it was work related," she answers, leaning her head against the couch and closing her eyes.

"Ah. I see."

"Can do without your judgment right now."

"Well, I am sorry if I have a less than stellar opinion of a man who repeatedly makes and breaks dates within the same day," he answers, his voice a little sharper than he intends. "You obviously did not find another suitor with whom to spend your evening then?" She left shortly before seven, so she must have done _something_.

Abbie opens her eyes and looks at him. "Is that what you think I do? Just go around and hook up with guys?"

Crane shrugs one shoulder. "Given your penchant for returning home at approximately three a.m., I can only begin to guess at your nocturnal activities."

"Ugh, when you say it like that it makes me sound like a ho," she says, looking irritated. "Look, not that it's any of your business, but..." she pauses, changing her mind. "You know what? I don't need to tell you shit. Why do you even care?" she demands, her voice rising. "You're not my dad or my... anything; I don't have to explain my actions to you at all!"

He takes her tirade calmly, saying nothing, letting her words wash over him. "You are right. You do not need to tell me anything," he quietly agrees. His voice is soft, yet his eyes are boring into her with a strange intensity. Then he suddenly drops his gaze. "I am no one to you. That much is clear."

"Crane, I..."

He holds up his hand and looks at her once more. "So it should not matter what my opinion is. It should not matter to you that I think men like Calvin Riggs and Nicholas Hawley are not worthy of you. It should not matter to you that I think you deserve better than casual relationships with men who are beneath you." He's still looking at her, watching her with eyes she never realized were so _blue_ before tonight. "I am simply someone with whom you share your living quarters, someone to ease the burden of a large rental payment," he finishes, finally looking away.

Abbie is dumbstruck by his words. She had no idea he felt that way. No idea he thought so highly of her. "You're not no one to me, Ichabod," she says.

He looks at her again, surprised. She has never addressed him by his given name before.

"You're... my friend," she adds, furrowing her brows. The word "friend" doesn't feel quite right.

He looks less than thrilled with this assessment. "It kills me inside to see you going out on these... _dates_ ," he admits, looking down again. "It kills me because I want... I mean... I know I would treat you better than any of them. Better than all of them combined." His voice is soft, but fervent.

She moves a little closer to him on the couch. "What are you trying to say?" she quietly asks.

"I think you know, Abbie," Ichabod answers. He lifts his head and sees that she has scooted closer still. He hesitantly reaches out and very lightly caresses her cheek. She unconsciously leans into his touch, her lips parting as she exhales a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

He moves his hand, curling his fingers under her chin to tilt her face up to meet his lips as he leans down to kiss her. She whimpers, then melts into the kiss, and when he feels her hand touch his shoulder, he abandons his carefully-held decorum and deepens it. His hand cradles the back of her head while the other finds her waist, pulling her closer. Her lips part beneath his, meeting his tongue with hers, drawing a groan from his throat.

"Oh..." he grunts, pulling away. "I..."

"Wow..." she exhales, looking slightly dazed. "I..."

They stare at one another for a moment, both at a loss for words.

Abbie bites her lower lip and a nervous giggle escapes. "Well," she manages. "That... changes things, doesn't it?"

"Only if you want it to," Crane answers, hopeful. If she returns his feelings, he will send Joe a case of beer. If she doesn't, he's going to punch the young man when next he sees him.

She rapidly blinks a few times, a nervous habit when she is struggling with her emotions, and says, "I was with Jenny."

His brow furrows, not quite following. "Tonight?"

"I had dinner with her," she says, nodding. "I'm with her most nights when I'm out late."

"Oh," he replies feeling foolish. "Why did you never tell me?" he asks, then immediately answers his own question. "I suppose it was never my business, was it?"

She gives him a half-shrug, then slowly reaches for his hands. "Not really. But if I had known you were assuming I was out giving it away to random dudes..."

"In my jealousy, I may have overstated a few things," he admits. "I am sorry." He rubs his thumbs over the backs of her hands.

"Thank you for the apology, but I can totally see how you could draw that conclusion," she allows. "I haven't gone out with a guy since... the last time I went out with Calvin."

"That was two months ago," Crane says, incredulous.

Abbie leans forward and pecks his lips. "I know."

Suddenly, a lightbulb goes on over his head. "Miss Mills, have you been attempting to make me jealous?"

Her eyes widen in mock innocence. "I would never do such a thing."

His eyes narrow in response. "I think you would, and did."

She sighs. "Not intentionally. Not at first, anyway," she admits. "Believe it or not, I understand how you operate, Crane. I knew that I would have to force you to make a move."

"You could have initiated—" he starts, then stops when he sees the look she is giving him. "You're right."

"You would have freaked. It had to be on your terms," she continues. "I honestly didn't know if you were really over Katrina or not, and I didn't want to push."

He smiles and softly kisses her. "As I said earlier tonight, I am well and truly over her. But you were right to be skeptical about my alleged contentment with my life as it stood." He kisses her again, a little longer this time. "You alone hold my fate in your hands." He murmurs the words against her lips.

"Such power," she responds, smiling, her eyes half-lidded as she pulls away just far enough to see him. She places her hands on his cheeks and tenderly holds his face as she kisses him, telling him her answer without words.

"Mmm, I think I am quite content now," Ichabod rumbles, smiling as he stands, pulling her to her feet along with him.

Abbie grabs the TV remote and turns it off. She gives him a sultry smirk and asks, "You wanna try for ecstatic?"


	22. Dressed Up

The first time Ichabod Crane saw Abigail Mills, she was dressed in her police uniform. Shades of tan and brown, nondescript, designed to be easily identifiable as well as removing any sort of personalization from the wearer. The very word "uniform", from the Latin ūnifōrmis, literally means "one shape".

Since that day, she hasn't worn the police uniform that often, instead wearing garments which, while comfortable and functional, are certainly much tighter than those to which he was accustomed. Now, years later, he can't imagine her wearing anything else. He even thinks of her should he see another woman in jeans, a t-shirt, boots, and a leather jacket.

Those leather jackets. She must have at least six. She once confessed to him that they are her Achilles Heel – her weakness – and while she knows she doesn't _need_ another, she always manages to find _some_ way to justify the purchase, from "I don't have a blue one" to "This one has a removable lining so I can wear it in multiple seasons".

The first time he saw her wearing an actual dress was for a wedding. One of the other police officers was getting married, and Abbie dragged Crane along as her plus-one. They never made it to the reception because being a Witness is a 24/7 job, but he remembers the dress as vividly as he remembers everything else. It was constructed of some sort of soft, shiny burgundy material. Long sleeved, with a neckline wide enough to expose one shoulder. That detail puzzled him most of all; he even awkwardly suggested she correct her garment before they left. Abbie chuckled fondly and explained that she was wearing the dress as it should be worn.

He found the garment puzzling and distracting. Loose and flowing on top but with a snug-fitting skirt, which is the exact opposite of dresses worn during his era. When she turned away to fetch her wrap – good Lord! The sight of her round, firm backside swathed in the tight burgundy fabric very nearly made his knees buckle.

"Crane? You okay? You look a little flushed," she asked, facing him once more.

"Hmm? Yes, fine, thank you. Shall we go?" he replied, quickly gathering his composure, thankful he at least had the presence of mind to tear his eyes away from her rear _before_ she turned around.

Her hair was attractively styled. Full lips tinted with a shiny paint that matched her dress. Feet clad in heels that were clearly too high for practical wear but accentuated the curve of her toned calves.

Yes, the image is still quite clear in Ichabod Crane's mind.

Which is why he is fretting and fumbling as he prepares for tonight. He misbuttoned his trousers twice. He despaired over his hair, wondering why he thought cutting it was a good idea (and silently cursing Miss Jenny for having suggested it in the first place). He misplaced his left boot, only to find he was already wearing it.

Tonight is the first ever Sleepy Hollow Revolutionary War Reenactment Guild's Harvest Ball. It was an event the Guild had always wanted to hold, but were never able to, because there was too much conflicting information on these sorts of social affairs.

Ichabod Crane very carefully (so as not to reveal himself) helped them get their facts sorted, and so the Harvest Ball was a "go" for the first time in the Guild's 20-plus year history.

Abbie was pleased when he asked if she would allow him to escort her. She'd been overhearing him help plan the event for weeks, and found herself growing inexplicably more anxious each day he did _not_ ask her to attend. When the thought finally occurred to him, she simply smiled and said, "I thought you'd never ask." True to form, he had huffed and stammered an awkward explanation of an apology, claiming he had gotten so engrossed in the planning he found himself already thinking he had asked her.

"In my mind, it was simply a given that you would attend as my... guest," he said, coming very close to saying "date". He cleared his throat and continued, "Forgive me if that was forward of me, and I promise I am not taking your companionship for granted. I was horrified this morning when I awoke and realized I had not, in fact, asked you to accompany me."

Of course Abbie forgave him immediately. She even let him design the dress for her, much to Jenny's dismay, as she had been hoping to turn her big sister into her own personal Colonial Barbie.

Crane was very excited to be given such an honor, and threw himself into the design of his Lieutenant's dress with the same enthusiasm he gives everything he enjoys. He felt a pang of sadness that Miss Caroline was not around to craft such an important garment, but he knew that Miss Lorraine was an expert seamstress and would not disappoint. He had three specifications: It must be primarily burgundy. It must be off the shoulder. And it must be as authentic as possible without being too restrictive of Miss Mills' movement.

Abbie only had one request, which she voiced over shared glasses of rum late one night in the Archives. She looked across the table at her partner and said, "I completely trust you with this dress thing, but... just make sure it doesn't look like anything Katrina ever wore." She sighed, looked away and added, "I mean, not that I would have any way of knowing, but..." her eyes met his once again across the table, "I'm just trusting you on this."

The gravity of her statement was not lost on him. Though it was given over something relatively trivial, he knows her trust is not easily or freely granted. So he simply nodded once, tossed his drink back, and said, "Understood." In his mind, there was no way such a thing was even possible. He would be hard-pressed to come up with two more disparate women than his late wife and his partner. "I promise your dress will be uniquely yours," he added.

xXx

"Can you breathe?" Jenny asks, suspiciously eyeing her sister. She just finished lacing her into the bodice over the dress and is standing and looking her up and down.

"Yes, I'm fine," Abbie answers. "Which probably means it isn't tight enough," she adds with a laugh. She looks down at her chest, heaving _just_ enough over the top. "Any tighter and the girls might escape though," she adds.

Jenny laughs with her. "I have to admit... he did a good job." She looks at the full skirt, which thankfully only has one petticoat, the snug-fitting burgundy and black brocade bodice, and the long flowing sleeves extending from the wide, shoulder-baring neckline. "You look pretty hot there, Martha."

"Shut up and help me with my hair," Abbie replies, grinning as she playfully shoves her sister. She wonders what Crane will say when he sees her. He may have designed the dress, but chose to bow out during the fittings, wishing to wait and see the finished product.

"Good thing you bought some more hair," Jenny comments, shaking her head as she looks at the picture of the hairstyle they chose to attempt. "We wouldn't have had enough to style with how short you've been wearing it lately."

"Lower maintenance," Abbie replies, picking up the decorative comb Crane had given her. He found it in an antiques shop and managed to talk his way into some sort of trade for consulting work from the shopkeeper. She smiles, thinking of how he manages to charm his way into everyone's hearts so effortlessly. _People don't even look at him strangely anymore._

There is a knock at the door just as Jenny is finishing up. "Ooo, _Captain Crane_ is here, Miss Abbie," Jenny says, her face breaking into a wide, mischievous grin. "You stay up here. I'll let him in so you can make an entrance."

"Jenny..." Abbie starts, but her sister is already gone. She picks up a tube of lipstick. _Did people wear lipstick back then?_ She looks in the mirror and shrugs. _I don't know, but I'm gonna._

She finishes up, drapes the accompanying black lace wrap over her arm, and heads out.

She pauses in her bedroom doorway, suddenly nervous. _What if I don't look right? What if... he doesn't_ like _how I look?_ The thought hits her, hard. She's actually worried about what he thinks about her _appearance._ "Don't be stupid," she tells herself, and wills her feet to move, looking down at the little black boots that are so different from the heavy, utilitarian black boots she normally favors.

She stops again at the top of the stairs, listening. She can hear Crane and Jenny talking, but can't make out the words. Jenny laughs, but if Crane joins her, Abbie cannot hear, and that makes her nervous. _Why isn't he laughing? And why_ is _Jenny laughing?_

Abbie takes a deep breath and descends the staircase.

"Oh, here she is!" Jenny exclaims.

_She's enjoying this too much. Should have made her come, too._

She can see Crane standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. She can't see his face yet, but he's there, and she knows he's watching her every move.

Crane holds his breath as she descends the stairs. Small black boots. A swirl of burgundy silk accompanied by a flash of black lace petticoat. An impossibly narrow waist hugged by brocade. Bare, brown shoulders, one kissed by an artful coil of hair.

His eyes find her face. He sees the trepidation there, but cannot speak, cannot say anything to reassure her. He is dumbstruck by her beauty. She looks far superior to any vision he could have conjured with his meager imagination.

"Crane?" It is Jenny who prompts him when Abbie pauses on the bottom step. She nudges his shoulder.

"Miss Mills," he exhales, finally breathing. "You look... magnificent." He extends his hand and she places hers in it, allowing him to escort her down the last two steps.

Abbie smiles, feeling her cheeks warm and hoping he doesn't notice. He's observant enough to tell if she's blushing. "Thank you," she says, willing her voice to be strong and steady. Her heart is pounding and she's not sure exactly why she feels anxious about this evening anymore. "You look good, too," she adds.

He does. His shorter-but-still-long hair is not hanging in his face for a change, and looks shinier than usual. He splurged on new garments for himself as well, and instead of looking like a slightly rumpled absent-minded professor with a History kink and good posture, he looks like a polished, tailored Colonial Gentleman of good breeding and education.

The man he once was, over 250 years ago.

Captain Ichabod Crane, the man Abbie met during her brief journey to 1781.

She smiles. "All you need is the hat," she comments.

Jenny's brow furrows. Crane's expression clouds only briefly, then his eyebrows lift. "Ah. The black, wide-brimmed hat," he guesses.

"Yes," Abbie nods. "You look a lot like the You I met when I went back... then," she explains.

He looks down. "I suppose I must do," he agrees. He turns his face to gaze at her once more, finding he cannot stop looking at her dressed this way. "And you... you are a vision, Abbie," he adds.

Jenny raises her eyebrows. "Whoa, using her first name? Who are you?" she asks.

"He's called me 'Abbie' a... few times," Abbie answers.

"Yeah, well, I've never heard it," Jenny answers. "You guys should get going." She takes Abbie's wrap and drapes it over her shoulders. "Gotta keep the girls warm now," she says, thinking she's quiet enough so Crane doesn't hear, but his surprised snort suggests otherwise.

Abbie chuckles. "Thanks, Jenny. Don't wait up," she says.

"Who says I'm staying home?" her sister returns, walking towards her room. "Have fun," she calls over her shoulder before disappearing.

Crane clears his throat. "Shall we?" He offers his arm.

She takes it with a smile. "We shall."

xXx

The ball is a resounding success. The drinks and hors d'oeuvres are all as authentic as possible. Everyone has to shake Crane's hand or clap him on the back in congratulatory thanks for all he did.

Abbie was impressed and, frankly, a little surprised at her partner's humility, begging off most of the compliments with a shy smile and a, "I merely offered advice; I did not do any of the real work," gesturing to various others in the organization he knew to have made the food or hung decorations.

They circulated and mingled, drank some, ate some. Abbie made sure to find Lorraine so the kind, talented older woman could see the final fruits of her labors. The seamstress was dressed in an equally well-crafted dress, but far simpler and in a more muted color palette, favoring soft blues and creams instead of dramatic burgundy and black. Crane heaped praise upon her for her work on his Lieutenant's dress, kissing her on the cheek before a friend summoned her away.

When the dancing started, Abbie became a little nervous. She remembers Crane boasting about his dancing ability, and assumes he will want to dance. She looks towards the musicians, noting they are also completely authentic. _Or so I assume._

She looks up at him to see that familiar corner-of-the-eye look he so likes to give her. "You want to dance, don't you?" she asks.

He places his hand over hers, still looped in the bend of his elbow. "I do not need to if you do not feel comfortable doing so," he answers.

His hand is warm and very large and she looks at it for a moment. "That's not what I asked," she says.

"I would like to dance, yes," he sighs. "But if—"

"You know what you're doing? _Really_ know?" she interjects.

"Of course," he answers, trying not to sound insulted.

"If you're a strong enough leader, I can follow. Let's go, Gene Kelly." As if on cue, the song ends and a new one begins.

He lifts their joined hands and slowly, almost cautiously places his other on her waist. She is significantly shorter than Katrina, but he reasons they'll do fine. _Hmm. This is the first I've thought of Katrina tonight._ The realization surprises him as he would have thought this event would have all but conjured her ghost.

"Crane?" Abbie prompts, wondering why they haven't started moving yet. People are staring, curious to see if the eccentric Ichabod Crane dances as well as he does everything else.

"Right," Crane responds, and moves.

Of course he is elegant and light on his feet.

Of course Abbie follows him easily, as though she has danced this dance with him a hundred times.

"You misled me, Lieutenant," he comments. "You are an excellent dancer."

She smiles a little sheepishly. "I took some dance classes when I was a girl. You know, before everything turned sideways. I've always had a knack for it, I guess."

He raises an eyebrow and initiates a somewhat complicated twirl, spinning her away and back with very little difficulty. "Indeed," he assesses.

"I guess I wasn't sure how well I would do at this kind of dance," she admits.

"What you call 'dancing' these days hardly qualifies," he says. "At least, popular dancing in clubs." He does quite enjoy Dancing With the Stars, even if he doesn't know (and doesn't care) who the "stars" are, because he can at least see the structure of those kinds of dances.

"Ah ah," she says, lifting one finger in a gesture usually favored by Crane. She gently presses said finger to his lips. "No tirades or rants tonight." Then, they both seem to realize where her finger is at the same time, and she jerks it away with a soft, "Oh."

His lips tingle with the memory of her tiny finger pressed against them, and he finds himself wishing for it back so he can kiss it and the rest of her small, strong, capable hand.

The song changes, and he reluctantly loosens his grasp on her. She looks confused for a moment, but then sees people forming lines: Men in one, women in the other.

"Oh, one of these kinds," she mutters, then looks helplessly at the women on either side of her.

"You'll be fine. Just follow us," one of them says, giving her a reassuring smile.

"I'll try not to step on you," Abbie replies, looking across at Crane. His eyes are locked on her, looking at her as though he... _do you want to think about that, Abbie?_

xXx

After the formation dance ("That was a minuet, Miss Mills," Crane explained, taking her hand and leading her from the floor), they decided to find a table and sit.

"You're very lucky," a voice says. Abbie looks up and sees it is the same woman who was beside her during the minuet. "All us single ladies in the Guild have been trying to catch his eye since his wife died... I mean, we waited a respectable amount of time and everything, but... well, there aren't a lot of guys who are single, under 50, and actually _attractive_ that are into this stuff," she rambles. "Oh, I'm Becca, by the way," she adds, almost absently.

"Abbie," Abbie answers, not bothering to correct Becca's incorrect assessment of her relationship with Crane. It happens so often now she doesn't bother correcting people anymore. "Nice to meet you. And thanks for your help out there."

"You're welcome," she smiles. "You're... you're a cop, right?"

"Was. I'm with the FBI now, but I consult with the Sheriff's Department a lot," Abbie answers. _Where is Crane with those drinks?_ She sees him talking to another man, and he glances helplessly at her.

" _So_ cool," Becca answers. "And I love your dress. Did Lorraine make it?"

"Yes, she did. You look really great, too," Abbie replies.

"Sorry, I was detained by Mr. Stevenson," Crane's voice is like a lifeline. He smiles politely at Becca. "Miss Rebecca," he nods.

"Mr. Crane," she returns, simpering. Abbie quickly takes a drink to keep herself from rolling her eyes. "Nice meeting you, Abbie."

"Mmm," Abbie nods as she swallows. "Crane on the Brain is a very real thing," she mutters, watching Becca scurry away to go and talk to someone else. _I may be suffering from a touch of it myself._

"What was that?" Crane asks, sitting.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," she says. "Do you know all the eligible ladies in this group are vying for your attention?"

"Yes," he answers, clearly unbothered and uninterested. "Their attention is flattering, but..." he shrugs.

"It takes time," Abbie ventures. She's fairly certain he is well over Katrina, but it's not something they talk about much, so she takes a shot in the dark.

"Oh, it's not that," he explains. "I simply do not feel the same way about any of them," he casually adds, hoping he doesn't sound _too_ casual. He does not feel the same way about any of _them_ because he has recently realized he feels that way about _her._ Abbie.

"And then there's the whole Witness complication," she presses on, pretending not to notice the hidden meaning in his last statement.

"Yes, there is that," he allows, downing his drink, then regards her for a long moment. "I should like some fresh air. Will you join me?"

"Um, okay." She picks up her wrap and stands, taking his offered hand. He tucks it into his elbow and guides her to a side door. "Where are we going?"

"There is a balcony through here," Crane explains, looking around a moment before opening the door and quickly escorting her out. He doesn't want anyone to follow them.

They step onto a small balcony, large enough for about four people to stand comfortably. The fall air is crisp, but not too cold, and the sky is clear. Abbie looks up at the nearly-full moon, glowing large and gold as it continues to rise.

"Nice night," she says.

"Yes," he agrees. The sight of her in the moonlight, dressed in the finery of his time, almost overwhelms him. She is always beautiful; he has thought so for as long as he has known her. But there is just something about seeing her dressed _this_ way that has brought his fledgling attraction to her to a head.

She takes her wrap from where she has it slung over her arm, and he quickly steps forward to place it over her shoulders for her. He lets his hands rest on her shoulders for a second. "Are you cold?"

"Not anymore," she answers, staring wide-eyed up at him. Her heartbeat has quickened slightly and her breathing has gone a bit shallow. _If he keeps looking at me this way I won't need this wrap at all._

The music from inside drifts out, muffled but recognizable, and a waltz begins.

"Surely not," Crane grumbles, and whatever Moment they were having ends as unexpectedly as it began. "The waltz did not come into popularity until 1790, which is—"

"Still technically part of the Colonial Era," Abbie points out, smiling. She reaches down and takes his left hand in her right, lifting it as she steps closer. She places her left hand on his shoulder.

"I do not know this dance," he softly says, placing his right hand on her waist nevertheless.

" _One_ , two, three, _one_ , two, three," Abbie says. "Easy." He still hesitates, and she adds, "You've watched that dancing show."

He inclines his head, waits another moment, then steps. "Quite simple indeed," he comments after a moment.

They dance in silence for a short time. Abbie's wrap becomes dislodged and simply drapes over her shoulders like a scarf, giving Crane quite the view of her enticing cleavage whenever he looks at her.

He tries not to look down, but cannot help it. His lieutenant is beautiful and warm and smart and funny and she is here with him.

_But can she be mine? Will she allow it?_

The song stops and they drift into stillness, but Crane does not let her go. She releases his hand and he simply moves it to her back, wrapping her in his embrace.

Abbie lifts her eyes to his, wondering why he is still holding her. _No, you're not wondering that. You're wondering what he's going to do with you now that he has you._

He doesn't disappoint, swiftly leaning down and sealing his lips over hers in a kiss which, now that it is happening, feels like it is long overdue.

She surrenders immediately, her eyes closing and hands coming back up to grip his lapels. His lips are very soft, and she barely notices the beard.

He pulls her closer, afraid that she'll vaporize in his arms and expose the entire evening as a dream. She completely relaxes into his hold, and when he feels her lift up on tiptoe to press closer into him, he realizes he needs to pull away before things go too far. "Abbie," he breathes, his voice husky and deep.

Her eyes slowly open. "Ichabod," she replies.

"Forgive me," he apologizes, loosening his hold on her some. Her brow furrows, confused, and he explains, "I should have asked for permission before taking such a liberty."

"Oh," she sighs, relieved. "I thought you were going to say you shouldn't have kissed me at all." She frowns. "Or that it was a mistake and you regret it."

"Heavens, no!" he exclaims, looking stricken that she would entertain such a thought. He even kisses her again for emphasis. "My only regret is that I did not act sooner."

Her eyebrows rise. "Sooner? So... what made you decide to finally act?" she asks.

"It's... terribly shallow of me, but to be quite honest, it's this dress," he replies, stepping back. He catches her hands in his and spreads her arms out so he can see her. "If this were 1781, every eye would be on you."

Abbie raises an eyebrow at him. "I _was_ in 1781 and every eye _was_ on me," she jokes.

Ichabod is less than amused. "You know what I mean, Miss Mills; do not deflect my compliment with sarcasm. I simply meant that if we were in a safe environment like Fredr—"

She steps forward and wraps her arms around his slender torso, resting her head on his chest, similar to how she hugged the _other_ Crane before sending him out to his (temporary) death. Only _this_ Crane hugs her back most ardently. "I know what you meant," she says. "I'm not very good at taking compliments," she softly admits.

He reaches up to her chin and tilts her face upwards. "You are going to have to learn," he softly says, ducking to kiss her again. "And you are going to have to grow at least five inches."

She giggles at his comment. "Yeah, that's not happening." She lifts her hand to his face, hesitantly touching his cheek, experimentally stroking his beard with her fingertips. He reaches up and presses her palm to his cheek, silently telling her not to be shy. Giving her permission to do what she will. She smiles and says, "I've always wondered what it felt like. Your beard."

He returns her smile. "I have always wondered what your lips felt like," he says, caressing her lower lip with his thumb. "I was not disappointed." He kisses her once more.

"We should go someplace where we can sit down or something," Abbie suggests when he lifts his head. Her feet are getting tired from standing on her tiptoes and her neck is getting sore.

"There are seats inside, but... I do not wish to return to the party," Crane says.

She bites her lower lip, raises up on tiptoe one more time, and kisses him, open mouthed this time, her patience with his courtly manners having grown thin. She flicks her tongue against his, drawing him out, and he growls deliciously as he returns her ardor.

"I wasn't talking about going back to the party," she finally says, pulling away again, breathing a bit heavier than before.

"Where, then?" he asks.

"Cabin," she answers. Then, in a sudden flash of trepidation, she adds, "If that's all right with you."

He stares down at her, and just when she thinks he's going to be all "Ahem, decorum, blah, blah, blah, courtship, mumble, mumble, proper" he simply nods, takes her hand, and begins to lead her towards the door heading back inside.

"Crane," Abbie says, laughing and tugging his hand.

"Hmm?" he asks, looking a bit impatient.

"Do you have a handkerchief?"

"Of course. Why?" he asks, withdrawing one from a pocket.

She takes it and reaches up to his face, wiping the telltale lipstick from his mouth. "Because people are going to notice if we reappear and I'm no longer wearing lipstick but _you_ are," she explains, showing him the cloth, now smudged with burgundy.

"Oh," he exclaims, blushing slightly. "Very good."

She hands him the handkerchief, straightens her wrap, and says, "All right. Let's go." He reaches for the door handle and she quietly adds, "This corset isn't going to unlace itself anyway."

"What?" he asks, though he heard her quite plainly.

She simply winks at him and walks through the door. He promptly follows, taking her hand and making a beeline for the exit.


	23. Coffeeshop AU

Abbie absently pokes around on her phone when some English-accented grumbling behind her catches her ear. _Him again._ She smiles, continuing to look at her phone, but her attention is on the tall gentleman behind her in line.

She sees him nearly every morning; their schedules must be similar. He's skinny, but cute, in kind of a hipster Muppet kind of way. She about died the first time she heard him speak, expecting neither the accent nor the velvety baritone timbre of his voice.

"Creamy pumpkin iced coffee… ah, yes, September is only just upon us and already we have the annual glut of pumpkin-flavored nonsense," he mutters.

Abbie doesn't even mind waiting in the long line. She likes listening to his sarcastic commentary on the drink specials.

"Autumn mocha. Well, that's certainly descriptive. Has it been filtered through fallen leaves then?" He sighs. "PB&J frappe? What on earth is that?"

Abbie stifles a snort of laughter. She had been wondering the same thing.

"Ah. Hot spiced cider. Finally, something I understand."

He goes on and on about the specials, then orders the same thing every time: Decaf mocha with double caramel and "a generous dollop of whipped cream, if you please."

 _Just get hot cocoa if you've got that much of a sweet tooth,_ Abbie had thought the first time she heard his order. _Especially if you're getting decaf anyway._

"Cherry cold brewed coffee? _Cheesecake mocha_?" he asks with a huff. Abbie steps forward, following the line. She senses him move behind her. Then he sighs.

Abbie hears a small electronic ping behind her and her head reflexively turns towards the sound. The tall Brit behind her takes his phone out and begins poking around on it. Apparently the ping was a text message. She quickly turns around before she _really_ starts staring at his hands.

She had never taken notice of them before. They are quite large and clearly strong, but his long, graceful fingers were holding his phone with such care and elegance that watching them move was almost hypnotic.

She steps forward and finds herself glancing back again, this time down at his boot-clad feet.

 _You know what they say about guys with big hands and feet…_ Her sister's voice drifts into her memory. They were at a basketball game, and while Abbie was actually watching the game, Jenny was watching the _players._

Abbie feels a little guilty assessing this man this way. She doesn't know him; shouldn't stand there and make judgments about him and guesses about what he may or may not be packing in his… _boxers? Briefs? I bet he's a briefs guy. Or maybe boxer briefs._

She checks the time on her phone and sees a Facebook update, so she quickly takes a look at that as well. The line moves, but she doesn't notice. Unfortunately, Tall, Dark, and British does notice, and steps forward, bumping right into her.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," he says, clearly embarrassed.

"No, it's totally my fault," Abbie replies. "I didn't see the line move, sorry."

"Even so, I should look where I am going," he returns.

"Short person problems," she says with a shrug. "Probably didn't even notice me down here," she adds with a smile.

"Oh, I assure you, I knew you were there. I simply was not paying adequate attention to my surroundings." He smiles back at her.

"We'll share blame then," she suggests.

"Agreed," he nods.

Abbie turns around and takes another step forward. She's next. She didn't mind him running into her. It was hardly a nudge, really. She felt the hard plane of his chest behind her head, and wonders if he's more built than he appears. _Stop it._

As she steps up to the register, an idea strikes her. It's pure impulse, but the words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them.

"I'd like to pay for the gentleman behind me, too," she says, leaning closer so he doesn't hear her. "For his coffee," she clarifies, realizing it sounded like she was wishing to purchase _him._

"Um, okay," the girl says, looking behind Abbie. "Oh, him. Decaf mocha with diabetes. Got it."

Abbie laughs and hands the girl her debit card.

xXx

"Your coffee has been paid for by the woman who was in front of you in line," the barista says, handing Ichabod his coffee.

"What? It has?" he looks quickly around, scanning the coffee shop for her. He sees her just exiting. "Excuse me…" he takes his coffee and dashes after her.

"Miss! I beg your pardon, Miss!" he calls, catching up to her on his long legs.

Abbie stops and turns. Part of her wanted to escape before he caught up with her, but she's mostly happy he chased her down.

"Thank you," he says. "I don't know what I did to be the recipient of your kindness; but, please, allow me to express my heartfelt gratitude," he thanks her with a small bow.

She giggles, unable to help herself. No one had ever bowed to her before. She kind of likes it. "Well, I could say it's an 'I'm sorry' for making you bump into me," she says, "but… I don't actually know why I did it. It was kind of an impulse. Random act of kindness, I guess."

"I see you here often," he says, stepping closer to the building to move out of the middle of the sidewalk. "Nearly every day."

 _He's noticed me, too._ "Yeah," she agrees, taking a sip of her coffee. She likes it best when it's still a little too hot. "Mmm, leafy," she says, eyes twinkling as she grins impishly at him.

He raises his left eyebrow. "Autumn mocha?" he cautiously ventures.

 _That eyebrow thing is kind of hot._ "I wasn't _trying_ to listen to you… but… come on, you are _too_ funny," she says.

"I didn't realize my musings were that loud," he says, his cheeks turning a bit pink.

"Okay, maybe I've started learning to listen for them," she admits. "My name's Abbie Mills." She holds her right hand out.

"Ichabod Crane," he answers, grasping her hand. It practically engulfs hers, but she pretends not to notice.

"That's an unusual name," she says. His hand is warm, perhaps from the coffee he was holding, but perhaps not.

"It is a family name," he explains. "I do not care much for it, to be quite honest."

"I think it is unique. It has character," she says.

"Character is not something of which I need more," he replies with a chuckle.

"That's probably true," she agrees, smiling up at him, looking down, then peeking back up through her lashes. _Holy crap, I'm full-on flirting now. Focus._ "You don't have a middle name?" she asks.

"Actually, no, I do not."

"Tough break. Abigail is actually my middle name," she says. "My first name is Grace, after my grandma. So they called me Abbie to avoid confusion." She pauses "Or something. I'm rambling, sorry."

"No, no, it's very interesting," he assures her. He presses his lips together, seemingly pondering something. "I would love to learn more about you… if you would be amenable to continuing our conversation another time," he shyly says.

 _He's really cute when he's being bashful._ "I'd stand here talking to you all day, but then I'd probably lose my job. So I very much like the idea of continuing this conversation… maybe over dinner?" she suggests.

He fishes in his pocket for a moment. "Here is my card. My mobile number is on it," he explains.

"Wait, I have one, too. Can you hold this?" she asks, trading him her coffee cup for his card, which she pockets before reaching into her purse. She takes out a card and a pen. "My cell's not on the card," she says, writing the number on the back.

They trade back, Abbie taking her coffee and Ichabod taking the card. "Oh, I understand why," he replies with a nod. "I don't imagine you would want your personal number on here… Lieutenant."

She smiles, liking his British pronunciation. "Well, it's against the rules, too," she says, looking at his card. He is the curator at the local history museum. _Cool._ "My shift is done at five," she tells him, looking back up. They didn't specify which day they would have dinner together, but she's free tonight.

"Noted," he responds with a nod, placing her card in a different other pocket so as not to lose it amongst his own. "It was lovely to finally meet you, Abbie. And thank you again for the coffee."

"You're welcome. And I'm glad we finally met, too, Ichabod." They both hesitate a moment, feeling slightly awkward, not knowing exactly what to do. Finally, she smiles, gives him a little wave, says, "Hope to hear from you later," and turns to walk away, willing herself to not look back.

She makes it about 15 yards. Then she looks back. He's still standing, watching her walk away. She gives another little wave, then continues on, refusing to feel guilty for putting a little extra sway in her hips.


	24. How Long Have You Been In Love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of season the AU - Canon Divergence

"Who's hungry? I'm hungry," Jenny declares, standing. "I need something greasy and salty. What do you guys want from McDonald's?"

"A grilled chicken sandwich, please," Crane answers, only glancing up for a moment from his book.

"Meal?" Jenny asks.

"Obviously," he answers, looking up again. "And Dr. Pepper."

Jenny snorts, knowing he'd ask for water if Abbie was there with them. "Joe?"

Joe just looks at her.

"Right. Big Mac meal, plus six-piece nuggets. And that awful blue stuff to drink," she recites. Joe smiles. Jenny returns his smile. It is sweet for a second, then turns a bit sly.

Joe's smile falls as realization steals over him, and can only watch as Jenny leaves. "Jen—"

A second after the door closes, Joe gets a text.

_I thought it would be better if you did it. You know, man to man._

He replies _Oh YOU decided that, huh?_

_JM: :)_

_JC: Yeah, you're just scared of Abbie._

_JM: So are you. Do it._

_JC: Bring me back an apple pie too then._

Since Crane's return, Jenny and Joe have had a bet going on how long it will take Abbie and Crane to realize what the two of them have already figured out. Since Abbie's reception of her partner was somewhat less than warm (Abbie simply regarded him coolly and said, "Oh, so you're not dead," and then didn't speak to him for another week), they decided it was going to take some time.

It's been another nine months since he's been back, and they're getting antsy. And tired of watching Abbie and Crane circle one another. They have a feeling the rest of the town (those who don't _already_ think they are together) is also getting tired of it as well.

So they agreed that the next time one of them was alone with Crane, they would broach the topic. Then Jenny nominated Joe for the task.

Because mentioning it to Abbie is Right Out.

Joe watches Crane over the top of his laptop, waiting for an opportune moment.

One comes gift-wrapped.

"Should we not have Miss Jenny pick up a meal for Miss Mills as well?" Crane asks, checking the time on the engraved pocket watch Abbie gave him this past Christmas. "She has a habit of joining us for lunch."

"Crane," Joe says, closing the lid of his computer. He takes another moment, watching the other man until he is certain he has his full attention. "How long have you been in love with Abbie?" Suddenly, Joe is very grateful for his FBI training. It is the only thing that allows him to keep his voice level. He's gotten to know Crane pretty well, but isn't sure how he'll take this question. He's seen Crane's temper, seen how he can explode, and while he doesn't think this is the sort of thing to set him off, he still doesn't wish to be the target of such an event. He's pretty sure he could take him in a fair fight (as long as swords are not involved), but doesn't want to find out for sure.

Crane simply blinks, as though the thought was one that had never occurred to him. His former work as a spy helped him learn how to keep his expression closed and unreadable (to all except Abbie, it seems), and he hopes he hasn't lost this ability.

Because he _has_ thought about it. When he realized how much he missed Abbie while he was gone. When he was so happy to see her, even when she wasn't happy to see him. When he realized he did not begrudge her for following her dream in his absence, instead feeling an immense sense of pride in her for what she's accomplished. When he manages to make her smile, or better still, laugh. When her small hand comes to rest on his person.

Oh, Ichabod Crane is in deep. And he _thought_ he was keeping it adequately hidden.

"What makes you say this?" Crane carefully asks after a moment.

Joe almost laughs, seeing right through his casual demeanor. "Dude. You just further proved my – our – theory," he says with a chuckle.

Crane's eyebrow rises. "'Our' theory?"

"Jenny and me," Joe admits. "It's… pretty obvious. To us, anyway. Because we know you guys so well, maybe. But Jenny has that knack for reading people, you know." Crane nods, and Joe continues, "And I am a trained professional."

"Indeed," Crane tersely answers, pursing his lips. He looks down at his fingernails. _Could use a trim._ The thought is random, a mild, subconscious distraction. "What is your purpose for making this enquiry?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you hope to achieve? Are you simply wanting to know for purely egotistical reasons, i.e., you wish to self-congratulate for being correct? Or do you expect me to have some sort of epiphany and rush off to the Lieutenant's home, which, may I remind you, she shares with Miss Jenny, with an armload of roses and declare myself?"

 _Perhaps having him explode in a fit of rage would have been a better option._ "Um…"

"If you think you are _helping_ me by 'opening my eyes' to my feelings for Miss Mills, I assure you, you have done nothing of the sort," Crane finishes.

A half-smile curves Joe's lips. "So you do love her."

"Nothing to be done about it, so if it's all the same to you, I will continue to attempt to keep my heart off of my sleeve to everyone apart from yourself and Miss Jenny," Crane tightly replies, burying his nose in his book again.

"What do you mean, 'nothing to be done about it'? Are you serious, man?" Joe asks, walking over and plucking the book from Crane's hands.

"Wha—?" Crane flusters, his fingers helplessly splayed, now grasping air. "Of course I am serious. Miss Mills—"

"She's into you, too, and just as bad at hiding it. I thought you were a spy," Joe shakes his head.

"My job was to extract _information_ , not…" he waves his hands, grasping for the correct words, "…infer whether or not my prisoner was in love with me."

"Crane. I've known Abbie for a long time. If you want to show up with roses, let me know when, and I'll make sure Jenny's out of the house for the night," Joe says.

Crane's eyebrow rises again. "Oh, and is that when you plan on revealing your own romantic feelings towards Miss Jenny?"

Joe's eyes widen for the briefest, most telling moment before he places the book back in Crane's hands and says, "This isn't about me right now."

xXx

Director Daniel Reynolds sits behind his desk, regarding Agent Mills and the eccentric Englishman he at first thought was a nuisance but has proved to be quite helpful. They are reporting back to him on a series of strange happenings near the river. After two days, they finally stopped the latest whatever-it-was causing problems in this heretofore quiet corner of the United States.

Crane's and Mills' words overlap each other, finishing one another's sentences. While Abbie talks, Crane gazes at her as though she is the most fascinating person in the entire world. When Crane talks, Abbie divides her attention between Crane and Daniel, watching the latter to make sure he is paying appropriate attention. She touches Crane's sleeve occasionally. They mirror each other. They lean towards one another.

Reynolds was not near the top of his class at Quantico for nothing.

Neither was Abbie. In fact, she was ranked higher than he, but turned down a more illustrious post in Chicago in favor of accepting a lesser position closer to home.

At the time, it had made Reynolds wonder. On one hand, he understood. She has conservatorship over her troubled younger sister, and needs to stay with her. But her sister could have moved with her, given the circumstances. When he was assigned to be Abbie's supervisor, he was a bit uneasy, given their history, but most of his discomfort came from knowing she is more skilled than he.

And now, as she sits across from him, clearly displaying every tell he knows (plus a couple of new ones) indicating attraction – and more – to the peculiar English scholar, he wonders how much of a factor this other man was in her desire to stay here.

He knew about Crane from before; of course he did. She had tons of photos of him (some alone, some with her) in her phone, including her home screen background. She always assured him that Crane was "a very good friend" and nothing more, and, at the time, he believed her.

However, her behavior of late has indicated otherwise. Daniel can't help wondering how they would even find the time for… anything… given all the weird stuff going on in this area.

There was no way he could have anticipated the whirlwind of activity Sleepy Hollow turned out to be. And she was somehow connected to it. He's learned that much, and now knows she feels some sort of honor-bound need to be here. Regardless of her sister, regardless of whatever her relationship to Crane, she feels she must be in Sleepy Hollow.

He gets that now. She's even alluded to it at times, making cryptic comments he only half understands because he has learned to be a little afraid to know the whole truth.

The truth he already knows is frightening – and baffling – enough.

If he hadn't seen those demons with his own eyes, felt the heat of their fire singeing the hair from his arm, and smelled their pungent brimstone odor, he would be wondering why Jenny was the only Mills sister who was at TPI.

And if there wasn't such irrefutable proof behind Crane's story, he would be wondering if Crane should also be there.

Lately, he's been wondering if they should all go check themselves in, including himself and Joe Corbin.

He thought this post would be a snooze-fest. Pushing pencils, chasing paper trails. He has never been so wrong. As a result, his job has become primarily running interference between Weird Central and FBI Headquarters.

As Crane begins launching into a detailed description of the latest hellbeast (with a couple of assists from Abbie), Reynolds holds up his hands. "Whoa, whoa… Mulder, Scully: you don't need to paint me a mental picture. I would like a chance at getting some sleep tonight."

Crane nods, clasping his fidgety hands in his lap. He glances at Abbie, and sees that she has simply gone still, her face carefully neutral.

"I expect I'll get your standard report?" Reynolds asks.

"Yes, sir. I'll run it through the regular 'normality' filters while Crane logs the actual events," Abbie replies.

Reynolds nods, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay. I expect it before you leave for the day. Your report, not his." He never wants to read Crane's reports. Decided he doesn't need that stuff in his head. He wonders how they keep their sanity. How _they_ sleep at night. "You're dismissed."

"Thank you, Director," Crane replies. He waits for Abbie to stand before he does.

They turn to leave, and Reynolds makes a decision. "Mills. A word?"

"I'll catch up with you," Abbie tells Crane, patting his lapel once. She sits again and waits for Crane to close the door before asking, "Yes?"

Reynolds looks at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "How long have you been in love with him?"

Abbie blinks. "With who, sir?" She knows exactly to whom he is referring, and she bristles at his unprofessional tactlessness.

"Your 'partner' there. Reverse Benedict Arnold," he clarifies.

Her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. "Excuse me?"

"I don't think you need further clarification, Abbie."

She stands. "First, I'm _not,_ and second, my personal life stopped being your business two years ago, _Daniel,_ " she hisses, not caring if she's being insubordinate. "I thought you said our history wouldn't be a problem, especially—"

"Don't flatter yourself. I could not care less who you're screwing or even seeing," he calmly and truthfully answers, still seated. "But it _becomes_ my business if it affects your work."

"I am _not…_ " she pauses, a tiny voice in her head asking _Am I?_ "…in love with Crane," she insists, hating how her voice wobbled on the word "love." She squares her shoulders. "And even if I were, it is _not_ your business and it would _not_ affect my work. _Sir._ " She turns to leave again.

"See that it doesn't." Daniel's cool reply follows her out the door.

xXx

Crane looks at his phone again, expecting… anything. A text, a call. He had returned to the archives after their meeting with Reynolds, expecting Abbie to join him as soon as she had finished.

His strange conversation with Joe was a week ago, and his feelings for Abbie have been slowly consuming his thoughts, almost to the point of distraction.

He has very nearly made up his mind to tell her, to go to her home with the bouquet of roses (which, he learned, are exorbitantly expensive) and throw himself at her feet and at her mercy, to take whatever consequence she gives.

So, when he received a text from her saying _I've got some errands to run. See you tomorrow morning_ , any hopes he had of confessing to her that evening were dashed.

He puts his book aside. It's been open to the same page for the last 20 minutes anyway. Engaging though the novel is, he will have to find out what happens to Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect another time.

He heaves a sigh and flips on the television, settling on _How It's Made_ , watching the production of leather recliners with unseeing eyes.

 _Should I text her?_ He runs his fingers over the cool, flat surface of his phone, pressing the button to wake it up.

Her smiling face, clear, brown eyes squinting slightly in the sunlight, is the image on his lock screen. He stares at it until the phone goes black once again. Then he presses the button again, this time entering the password – the day they met. The home screen is a photo of the two of them together, at the Mets game, a ridiculous baseball cap perched awkwardly on his head, a cloud of blue cotton candy between them.

His thumb hovers over the Messages icon when the doorknob turns. Startled, he drops the phone.

Of the few visitors he gets, only one does not knock.

"Miss Mills," he says, his voice a little breathier than usual. He reaches down and scoops up his phone. "I was just thinking of sending you a text missive."

She smiles for just a moment, her eyes soft but with another quality he doesn't often see. Wariness? Fear? She looks anxious.

"Is something amiss?" he asks, stepping towards her. "You look…" His hand comes up to her cheek, but he stops before he touches her, dropping it.

She catches and holds it before it falls, and he looks down at their joined hands. His heart is pounding frantically in his chest, and he wonders if she can see it.

"Nothing's amiss…" she says, looking down. Then she looks up, into his eyes. "I don't think it is, anyway. Not anymore." She lifts her hand, bringing his with, and shifts them, opening her hand and sliding her palm against his before threading her tiny fingers through his long ones. His fingers automatically curl down around her hand. "I hope not anyway," she whispers, still looking at him.

Her eyes silently ask the question he never expected. He has given this so much thought, especially lately, indulging his imagination in countless "What if" scenarios while in the cover of darkness and the sanctuary of his bed. But he never dared to hope.

But here she stands, her wide brown eyes staring up into his, warm hand twined with his, lush lips slightly parted, so, _so_ close. Asking him without a word.

He knows he is the only person who can read her like this. She is deliberately stepping outside of the safety of her walls to open the door for him.

It is his choice to make; his choice to step through or stay on the other side.

The gravity of this moment is not lost on Ichabod Crane. Her sudden trust in him nearly makes his knees give out. And he knows he will never get – she will never _give_ him – another opportunity if he makes the wrong choice.

So he chooses, leaning down to finally claim the soft lips that are waiting for him.


	25. Caught in a Rainstorm

"Ah! Stupid water fairies!" Abbie exclaims, hunching down as the raindrops begin pelting them.

"The book did not say this would happen," Crane replies, quickly opening one side of his coat to hold over his partner's head as they awkwardly run towards the car. He is getting drenched, but he is more concerned about keeping her dry.

"Well, check it again, because if this goes on for a while, it could be a real problem," she says.

"Quite," he agrees, opening the car door for her, waiting while she jumps inside, closing the door, and running around to the passenger side just as lightning flashes brightly over their heads, followed shortly by a loud clap of thunder.

"Thanks," she says, smiling over at him. He is completely soaked. She's pretty wet, too, Crane's coat offering her minimal protection. It's the gesture she mainly appreciates.

"It is my pleasure, Love," he answers.

She squeezes his cold, wet hand, then puts the car in gear and drives to the cabin.

They've been romantically involved for two months now, and _intimately involved_ (as Crane would say) for one of those. Crane showed his hand quite by accident late one night while they were doing research in the Archives, and while Abbie wasn't entirely surprised, it took her a few days to finally admit to herself – and him – that she did, indeed, feel the same.

The shift in their association was as smooth as glass, and they fell into an easy rhythm as their new intimacy served to further strengthen their bond.

"Where's the book?" Abbie asks.

"In the back seat, but I fear my hands are still too wet," Crane answers, looking around for something on which to wipe his hands.

"There might be some napkins in the glove box," she suggests. "I usually stash leftover ones in there."

He pops open the compartment. "Ah." He grabs several, dries his hands, then reaches for the book.

"I think it's getting lighter," she says, turning her windshield wipers from high to low. Lightning flashes again.

He hums a noncommittal answer, reading in the dim glow of the little map light in the ceiling of the car. She knows he's heard her, but as he is reading, won't respond further.

"Ah. There were six fairies," he declares, finger tapping a line in the book. "So that means the rain should last about…" he pauses, translating the Middle English text and doing math at the same time, "an hour. Perhaps a little more." He sets the book in the back seat again.

"So, like, ten minutes per fairy?" she asks, chuckling. She stops at a stop sign and looks over at him. His hair is hanging in dark, wet waves, some tendrils dripping, some clinging to his face and beard. His wool coat is beginning to smell like wet dog, and beneath it, his sage green shirt is stuck to his chest. Her eyes briefly drop to his lap, and sees his trousers similarly clinging to his body. He is somehow managing to look adorable and hot at the same time.

"Are you waiting for something in particular?" he asks, wondering why they aren't moving. "I do believe the cross street is clear," he adds, raising his eyebrow at her.

She lifts her eyes from his groin. "Oh," she answers, hitting the gas. _Damn it. Caught staring._

Abbie doesn't seem to notice the front of her light gray t-shirt got wet enough to cling to her as well, Crane can see her favorite black lace bra right through, and had been dividing his attention between the book and her chest. Now, without the book, he is finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes forward and not glued to the glistening skin showing above the v-neck of her shirt. He has silently cursed the strap of her seat belt twice already.

When she pulls up to the cabin and turns off the car, he says a silent prayer of thanks, hoping that the falling rain will do something to cool his rapidly-heating blood.

"Wait there," he says, then leaps out and runs around to open the door for her and tuck her under the flap of his coat again.

"You don't need to do this again," she says.

"I know your hair becomes a problem if it becomes unexpectedly wet," he answers on the porch. "I promised I would do everything in my power to see to your happiness, did I not?"

"You did," she nods, smiling again. "Thank you."

He opens the door wide, then steps aside to let her in, eyes dropping to watch her rear end as it sways past him.

Another soaking in the cold rain had no effect on him. So he gives in, hoping the rain hasn't dampened her mood in any way.

Once inside, his hands are immediately at her shoulders, removing her jacket for her and placing it over the back of a chair to dry.

"This is stupid..." Abbie lightly protests as he kneels down to unlace her boots. "You're wetter than I am."

He looks up, cocking an eyebrow at her, his expression positively sinful as he says, "Not for long."

She blinks, still getting used to the fairly recent revelation that this museum piece from the Revolutionary War, Captain Ichabod Crane, Redcoat-turned-Founding-Father, her partner in every sense of the word, has an extraordinarily, deliciously dirty mind.

A smug, closed-lipped smile crosses his face as he returns to his task. He loves rendering her speechless, especially with a bawdy remark. He removes her boots, then peels her wet socks from her feet. He stands again, finally removing his saturated coat and soggy boots. He then frames her face with his hands, and leans down to kiss her. His hair drips a little on her, but she doesn't notice because all of her attention is on staying upright. The kiss roars through her, warming her chilled, damp body from the inside out.

"Whoa..." she exhales, swaying slightly. "What has gotten into you?" she asks, smiling.

He bends down and languidly kisses her neck. "The sweet torment of your clinging clothes combined with your already-irresistible nature, Lieutenant," he answers, his voice a low rumble in her ear. Then he lightly nips her earlobe before snaking his hands down to her waist and pulls her shirt free from her jeans. In one smooth motion, it is over her head and on the floor with her socks.

"You, too," she replies, pulling his shirt up as far as she can before he takes over and impatiently yanks it off, hastily rubbing his hair with the drier back before dropping it. Her fingers find the scar on his chest, tracing the long white ridge of it before she leans forward and kisses it, drawing a soft groan from his throat.

Their pants join the sodden pile on the floor, and Crane scoops Abbie into his arms, carrying her to the bedroom, both clad only in their undergarments.

There is another flash of lightning, illuminating the room for a split second. She unconsciously counts _1… 2… 3… 4…_ before the thunder sounds. "It's getting farther away," she says. He sets her down on the bed with extreme care, as though he fears he will break her.

He knows she won't break. She may be strong and resilient, but she is precious to him and he will treat her as such.

Abbie automatically reaches behind her and pulls the covers down, scooting them out from under her. Crane helps, then climbs over her, hovering on his hands and knees, surrounding her with his body.

She lifts up on her elbows to kiss him, and he takes advantage, reaching behind her with one hand to deftly unhook her bra.

"You got that one-handed?" she asks, impressed. "Most men who were born in this era can't even do that."

"Perhaps that's my advantage," he answers as he slides the straps from her shoulders.

"Perhaps it's those crazy big hands with their crazy talented fingers," she says. She takes his free hand and holds hers up to it, measuring it against his. He automatically curls the tips of his fingers over the tops of hers, demonstrating how much larger his hand is.

"Perhaps," he allows with a sly smile. He sits up for a moment, straddling her legs on his knees, and finishes removing her bra. Then he places his hands on her breasts, palming them with just enough pressure.

"Mmm," she pleasurably hums, writhing a little beneath him.

He kisses her lips, then starts crawling backwards, occasionally dropping kisses as he goes. When he reaches her black lace thong, he places an open-mouthed kiss just below her navel, then sets about peeling her panties off.

Abbie lifts her hips to assist him, then settles back against the pillows, having a pretty good idea about his intentions, since Ichabod is slowly kissing his way up her leg.

She sighs when she feels the prickly tickle of his beard on her inner thighs, so close, but he goes no further, taking his time. Impatient, she silently curses him, knowing he likes to build anticipation. He likes to make her squirm, make her hot and needy and desperate with just the thought of what he is about to do.

He hums against her thigh, clearly enjoying tormenting her. He softly bites the pliant flesh, then, when she is just about ready to grab his hair and drag his head the last few inches, he moves, settling in between her thighs. His tongue is gentle at first, tenderly licking, his lips soft as he kisses and sucks her heated flesh.

"Mmmyeah..." she moans, tossing her head back, eyes blissfully closed. He slides one finger inside, curving it just so as he circles his tongue. "Oh!" Her hips buck beneath him, but he holds her in place with his other arm.

He lifts his head just enough to tut at her in mock reproach, left eyebrow aloft, then dives back in, adding a second finger and being a bit more aggressive with his tongue.

"Fu..." she half-swears, one hand gripping a fistful of his hair while the other finds her breast. A few seconds later she cries out, clenching around his fingers as she comes. He backs off but does not fully retreat, becoming gentle again as she rides out her orgasm.

"Come up here," Abbie whispers, her breathing slowing to normal again. He rests his head on her hip for a moment, a hint of a smile on his face. She runs her fingers through his hair and calls to him again. "Ichabod."

Even though the nature of their relationship has shifted, she still rarely uses his first name. He does not blame her; he has always hated his name, but hearing it from her lips makes it a lot more tolerable. "Not to fret, dearest Abigail; I am not yet finished with you," he says, kissing her belly button. Then he moves upward to kiss her lips, letting her take control now.

She pushes his shoulder and they roll over so she is on top. "You still have your drawers on," she comments, her fingers reaching for his waistband. "This won't do at all."

"Indeed not," he agrees.

Once his boxer briefs are on the floor with the rest of their clothes, she climbs over him, lithe as a cat, settling on his chest so she can kiss him. "What do you want?" she asks between kisses. "What do you want, Ichabod?" she repeats the question.

"Oh," he groans. "I want… you," he answers.

She nips his lower lip. "Vague," she admonishes, then pokes him in the ribs.

He jumps and yelps in a very undignified, un-Crane-like manner that makes Abbie giggle. She had discovered the very few, _very_ ticklish spots he has and thoroughly enjoys how jabbing them reduces him to a ridiculous pile of jelly.

"Miss Mills," he sternly says. "This is not the time for… ah!"

She laughs, having poked him again. Then she sets her forehead against his so they are face to face, nose to nose. She also moves her legs, capturing his erection between her thighs. "Then answer my question," she says, sucking his lower lip into her mouth.

"I want… uh…" he pauses, grunting as she takes his length in her hand, languidly stroking him, "I want to gaze up at you… mmm… and watch you while you…" he breaks off again, absently licking his lips as she moves to straddle him.

"Out with it," she says, lightly raking her nails through his chest hair, perched just over him, having placed his manhood _just_ where it needs to be. Teasing him until he tells her what she already knows.

"Oh, why must you torment me so?" he breathily laments.

She gives her hips a small swirl to further taunt him. "Because I like hearing your elegant voice saying naughty, dirty things," she purrs.

"I want to be inside of you, beneath you, at your mercy," he immediately replies, groaning as he receives his reward. She starts moving, her hands braced on his chest. "I want to be able to watch you while you… while you fuck me…" His eyes close for just a moment, contradicting his words, but he snaps them open almost immediately.

"Mmm… see? That… oh… wasn't so hard, was it?" she asks, moving his hands from her hips to her breasts.

"No, but something _else_ is," he answers, thrusting his hips upward with the word "else".

Abbie laughs, dropping her head back. Then she leans forward and kisses him deeply.

Ichabod's hands slide around to keep her close to him. "Oh…" he exhales, his fingers flexing, pressing into her skin.

She takes the cue and moves faster, because she knows he's close. So is she. "Just a little…"

"Yes… oh, like that…"

"Mmm yes," she agrees, and a few seconds later she wordlessly cries out, coming a second time. She sinks her teeth into his shoulder and his body stills as he surges into her, her name on his lips and his nose buried in her hair.

"Oh, I love you, you naughty, naughty minx," he sighs, wrapping his arms around her as she lies on his chest.

"That's _why_ you love me," she answers, smiling.

"One of innumerable reasons," he corrects.

She kisses his chest, moving her face a little to kiss the line of his scar. "I love you, too," she says. "Even though you are a potty-mouth."

"And whose fault is that?" he protests, feigning offense. "You said you liked hearing me spout filth."

She giggles, her face buried in his chest. Then she slides off of him, moving to curl against his side. "Mmm, you know what I'd really like?" she murmurs, trailing her fingers over his chest.

"No. What would you like, Treasure?" he replies. He looks down at her and kisses her forehead.

"A hot bath."


	26. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!

"Mind if I come inside for a minute to warm up before I go home?" Abbie asks, shutting the car off and unbuckling her seat belt before he can even answer. She knows he won't say no. In fact, she's a little surprised he didn't insist upon it.

"Fine," Crane shortly replies, then unbuckles and exits the car. His movements are precise and just a shade more forceful than usual.

"Oookayyy…" Abbie says, opening her door. By the time her soaking wet boots hit the snow-covered ground, he is already waiting on the porch.

He's angry, but still too much of a gentleman to not hold the door for her.

She scurries to the cabin, chilled through, hoping for a nice cup of tea and a roaring fire for a half an hour – maybe an hour – to at least warm her enough so she can drive home and crawl into a hot bubble bath.

"Thank you," she says, ducking through the door. He stalks through to his room while she crouches to remove her boots and socks. The ice on the river wasn't as thick as she had thought, but luckily she only got soaked up to her knees before Crane grabbed her and pulled her back to solid ground.

This was _after_ she wandered off on her own because she decided splitting up was a good idea.

She hears the bathroom door slam. A few minutes later, it opens again, and Crane stomps back out, bootless but no quieter. He starts throwing logs into the fireplace with an attitude that suggests he heard them making disparaging remarks about George Washington.

"I'm just gonna change," Abbie says, stepping towards him. She has a pair of yoga pants in his room along with some other basic necessities, but she has to go past him to get there.

He ignores her, stepping aside to let her pass, then crouching at the hearth to light the fire.

She sucks her teeth, growing more annoyed with him by the second, and decides to slam the bedroom door when she goes in to change.

When she emerges again, the fire is blazing and he is in the kitchen. "Crane," she says, deciding to _make_ him talk to her.

"Fire," he barks, gesturing towards the fireplace. He still doesn't look at her, his eyes glued to the stove and the burner he is lighting.

"Yes. It is," she answers, ignoring his command. She walks into the kitchen and leans against the short length of counter, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Me?" Crane wheels around, sloshing water out of the kettle in his hand. "I should be asking that of you, Lieutenant." He slams the metal pot on the stovetop, spilling even more. The blue flame on the burner sputters a moment, but holds.

"Me?" Abbie echoes, her head bobbing backwards in surprise. "I'm not the one walking around here like the floor is covered in spiders and _ignoring_ my partn—"

The finger comes up, and she has a mild urge to bite it off.

"Do not speak to me about ignoring one's partner, Miss Mills," he hisses, walking closer. "For that is exactly what you did not one hour ago."

"What, when I suggested we split up to look for that Ijiraq thing?" she answers.

"No, when you _decided_ we would split up _without_ first discussing it with me. Your _partner_ ," he fumes.

Abbie has seen him get this angry before, but this is the first time she's been the focus of his wrath. It's a bit intimidating, but she will not be cowed. Not by him. "Time was of the essence, Crane," she defends herself. "Sometimes quick decisions need to be made. Sometimes there isn't time for a _discussion_."

He closes his eyes, fist clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Do you think I am not aware of that fact? I was a soldier. I have been in battle. I am well aware that, in the heat of the moment, seconds can mean the difference between life and death," he says. His voice is unsettlingly quiet now. "However, you cannot simply… take off into the forest in the middle of the night after an Inuit shape-shifter _without first, at least, telling me you are leaving_!" His voice rises to a shout again as he speaks.

She understands his anger. It's the magnitude of it that she doesn't understand. "Okay, I'm sorry I took off, all right? And it worked out fine, so—"

"But it might not have!"

"Well, it did, so you can chill."

"You could have drowned – again – and I…" he trails off, turning back to the stove to pluck the kettle off of the burner.

She can see his hand trembling as he pours the water into their cups, then slams it back on the stovetop to cool. Her brows furrow. "Why are you so pissed about this?" she demands, her hands on her hips.

"Because I love you!" he roars, wheeling around. The silence that follows is deafening. "I love you," he repeats, softer, his voice breaking. "I love you and I could have lost you… again. It was hard enough the first time it happened, but… Abbie… you have no idea what it would do to me if you…" He sinks to the floor, sitting on the hardwood, his back against the cupboard.

Abbie feels like she has been struck by lightning. She grips the edge of the counter, her head spinning. "What?" She whispers the question, afraid that if she speaks loudly she will wake herself up from what is surely a weird dream.

Weird, but not in a bad way.

"You heard me. They probably heard me in town," Crane mutters, his head hanging between his upraised knees.

She cautiously moves closer, like she is approaching a frightened rabbit. When he doesn't move, she sits beside him on the floor.

They sit, side by side, for several minutes, not speaking. Abbie stares into the middle distance, lost in introspection. She stares at her feet, loosely covered by a pair of too-big tube socks she found in a dresser drawer. Obviously Sheriff Corbin's, her heart clenched just a little when she pulled them on. As she stares at them, his voice drifts into her memory. _What do_ you _want, Kiddo?_ He would ask her that whenever he suspected her actions were being guided by outside influences. To teach her to think for herself. She wiggles her toes and wonders if he's going to say anything or if he's waiting for her to speak. She glances up at Crane. He doesn't move.

Finally, she reaches up and touches his elbow, then gropes down his forearm to his wrist, which she grasps and pulls towards her. She catches his hand and threads her fingers through his, but doesn't look at him. "I don't know what to say," she whispers. "I… I want to say it back… I mean, I _do…_ feel that way… always have, but… you know, in a different…"

He nods. "As have I," he replies. "It's only since I returned from my sojourn that I realized that my feelings for you have transformed into something, well, _more_."

She looks up at him. "I didn't hate hearing it," she admits, attempting a very small smile. "And I… I might…" she trails off, her brain whirring as she attempts to figure out her feelings. They've always been complicated. Because he was married, that aspect was always a no-go area. Then, in the blink of an eye, he wasn't married. Then he was gone. And when he came back, he was… different, but still himself. _More_ himself, if that's possible. At first, she was mad at him for not staying in touch, but quickly forgave him. Because she understands him. She _knows_ him. And what else?

What else?

"You need time," Crane says, his thumb absently skimming the back of her hand. He knows her, too.

Abbie nods. "You surprised me," she says with a small laugh.

"I surprised myself," he replies. "Not with _what_ I said, but that I said it at all."

She nods again, looking down at their still-joined hands.

They sit like that for several minutes, not talking. Abbie thinks. Crane waits. The stillness is comfortable; they are far too close for awkward silences.

"If—" She starts to say something then stops, deciding it is foolishness.

"Lieutenant?" he prompts.

"Nothing. It's stupid." She looks at her feet, keeping her eyes downcast.

"I am certain it is not."

She sighs, knowing he'll keep pressing until she tells him. "If you wanted to, you know, court me or whatever, I… wouldn't be opposed," she says, glancing at him. He doesn't say anything right away, so she adds, "I told you it was stupid," and looks away again.

"No! No, not at all!" he reassures her. "I was merely surprised. I was not expecting…" he trails off a moment, then he turns and lifts their joined hands to his lips, lightly kissing her knuckles. "I would be honored to court you, Miss Mills."

She looks up at him and sees his eyes shining with love as he gazes down at her. She gives him a small but reassuring smile.

"Of course, some concessions will have to be made," he says, lost in thought. She watches him with amused fondness, realizing she likes seeing him puzzle through a conundrum. "For instance, chaperoned outings might be a bit of a challenge, as finding a suitable chaperone is likely impossible, due to both of us having rather… unique familial situations."

Abbie snorts a small laugh. "All I have is Jenny. And that ain't happening," she chuckles.

Crane raises an eyebrow and looks down at her. "Indeed not, if for no other reason than she is your _younger_ sister."

"And she would be encouraging all the things her presence is supposed to be preventing," she adds.

"Quite," he agrees. He tilts his head to the side. "I always found that to be rather a stupid custom anyway. We are _consenting adults_ , as the saying goes, are we not?"

She straightens her back. "We are, indeed," she agrees, grinning.

He smiles down at her, giving her that sideways smirk he habitually does when he's trying to make her smile or laugh. "Well, then. As this will be the first-ever courtship of a 21st Century woman by an 18th Century man, we shall simply… what is that phrase? Ah. 'Wing it'. We shall wing it." He decisively nods, then glances down at her.

"I'm… looking forward to it," she says, surprising herself a little. _I really am._

"In that case, I hope I do not disappoint," he says.

"You won't." The certainty in her voice makes his heart soar. He squeezes her hand, and they sit quietly for a few moments. "I'm really sorry," she says, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"I understand. It was a surprise, as you said. And this was not exactly how I planned on telling you…"

"I meant I'm really sorry about taking off tonight. I won't do it again," she explains, squeezing his hand.

He leans down and kisses her forehead. "See that you don't."


	27. Kiss Me to Hide Both Our Faces

"This way, Lieutenant!" Crane whisper-yells, frantically motioning with his hand.

Abbie makes a quick turn, darting into the alley, grabbing his hand so she can more easily keep up with him. She practically floats behind him, her toes barely hitting the ground as he essentially drags her to the other end of the alley.

"Crane, wait!" she says, tugging his hand into a doorway. "That's a street fair! We can't have Hessian fanatics wreaking havoc amongst innocent people!"

"There is a certain safety in a crowd," he counters, studying her a moment. Quickly, he tugs the scarf she has tucked under her coat, gently but swiftly pulling it free.

"What are you…?" she asks, watching as he takes the long grey cashmere and loops it around his neck. Then he removes his coat and puts it on over hers, folding the cuffs up so her hands aren't completely engulfed.

He reaches for her head, but stops, fingers hovering near her hair. "Take your hair down," he says, withdrawing his hand.

She immediately removes the clip and shoves it in the pocket of his coat. She runs her fingers through her hair, teasing the waves free. It doesn't look as neatly done as usual, but it will suffice. "All right," she says, looping her hand into his elbow.

They wait until a group of people pass the alley opening and flow out with them. Abbie keeps an eye on Crane, noting he still looks out of place.

"At ease, Soldier," she murmurs, eyeing a booth with handmade knit items for sale. She starts pulling him towards it.

"Hmm?" he asks, not taking her meaning.

"Slouch a little for once," she says, nudging him in the side. Then she approaches the vendor, quickly chooses a hat, and gives the woman a ten dollar bill. She reaches up and places it on her partner's head, tucking his hair into it.

"I must look ridiculous," he mutters.

"You look less conspicuous," she replies, pointing around them. He looks around and sees at least five other young men wearing similar knit caps – and three of them have dark beards.

He also sees one of the Hessians, milling about the crowd. Across the street is one of his companions.

"Let us hope it is enough. At least until Miss Jenny and Master Corbin return with the appropriate… items," he replies, grabbing her hand again. "We must keep moving."

They walk around, appearing as though they are just fair-goers, even pausing near some other booths. Abbie wishes she had the freedom to actually shop. _I like the looks of those homemade soaps and lotions. Maybe another time._

They are approaching the end of the barricaded street, and decide to turn around. Unfortunately, there are four Hessians very close by, and there are lines of people at food vendors blocking all but one path.

"They're heading this way," Crane says, squeezing her hand.

Stepping outside the barricade into traffic is not an option, and this time it is Abbie who thinks quickly. She starts backing against a building, pulling Crane with her, blocking her body with his.

Her eyes dart to the left. _They're almost here._ "Kiss me," she says. Suddenly, her palms feel sweaty and the two coats she has on are making her overly warm.

"What?" he asks, almost too loud in his shock.

" _Kiss me_ ," she repeats, grabbing the scarf and pulling down.

His lips meet hers, clumsily at first, but in seconds his hands come around her small body, one gently cradling the back of her head while the other wraps around her back, holding her against him.

Her fingers loosen on the scarf to snake up around his neck, and she makes a surprised squeak in the back of her throat when she feels his tongue slip forward against her lips. She's even more surprised when she parts her lips and meets it with her own.

Crane makes a soft, low growling noise and pulls her even closer. Her impossibly soft lips and sweet, clever tongue very, _very_ nearly making him forget that they are in a busy, public location and there are deadly Hessians looking for them and the book they have safely locked in the underground Masonic chamber.

Abbie sighs and lifts up on tiptoe, beginning to lose herself in the kiss. She thought it was a good idea at the time, a way to hide both their faces. She didn't think about the fact that she's been wondering for years what kissing him would be like.

It's nothing like she imagined. From the skillful dart and sweep of his tongue to the way his lips massage hers to the unexpectedly pleasant sensation of his beard against her skin, she never expected it to be this _good._

He grips the coat covering her back, trying to feel the woman beneath all the layers of thick material. Her fingers toy with the curls of hair that peek out from beneath his cap, wishing she could yank it from his head and run her fingers through all of it.

Then her phone buzzes in her pocket.

"Crane," she says, trying to pull away. "Crane."

"Oh! Oh dear," he blusters, slowly releasing her. He looks down into her eyes and sees her pupils as wide as he's ever seen them, and knows his must look much the same. "I beg y—"

She holds up a finger as she gropes through the layers for her phone. "Jenny," she answers, "where are you guys?" Crane starts to step back, but she grabs him by the scarf again, holding him in place. "Fifth and Main. Yeah. _Yes,_ I know. We're hiding in the crowd. Okay."

"I believe the coast, as they say, is clear," Crane says, his eyes darting around before looking down at her.

"Jenny said ten minutes, so we'll see her in seven," Abbie replies.

They stare at one another for a long moment.

"Miss Mills, I…"

"We'll talk about… _that_ later. Right now I just want to get out of here, okay?" she asks, reaching over and taking his hand in hers to reassure him.

"Of course," he replies. He studies her face a moment, then says, "I look forward to our conversation."

"Me too," she says. She blinks a few times, then repeats, "Me too."


	28. For Science

Abbie needed air. There didn't seem to be any in the living room. It was too crowded; too filled with her "roommate".

Crane silently watched as she stood, walked to the front door, and stepped out onto the front porch into the night.

 _Pandora. Her words are like poison._ Though, this time, they weren't so much poisonous as they were… _what? Unsettling?_

_Accurate?_

He watched through the sheer fabric of the curtains as she sat on the porch swing, her posture stiff. Uneasy.

_She had regarded them, that mysterious smirk on her face, as the luminescent dust from the faeries they'd just obliterated fell and faded, like embers from a million sparklers. Crane had Abbie wrapped in his arms, instinctively protecting her from the blast, putting his back between them and the fallout._

_"Isn't this sweet?" Pandora's voice was syrupy, dripping with cloying sarcasm. "Hmm," she half-hummed, half-giggled, "the young lovers. He: so chivalrous, so protective. She: so brave, so resourceful."_

_She circled around to stand before their faces. Abbie and Crane were frozen in place, unable to move, held in some spell as she continued to taunt them. "But, oh, I do forget. You_ aren't _lovers, are you?" she asked, her face in an exaggerated pout. Then she shrugged. "Perhaps it's for the best, what with Ichabod's…_ dubious _record in that area. Not to mention Abbie's fear of losing those she loves…" She tutted lightly, shaking her head in mock remorse as she began to back away from them. "Such a pity though… to deny oneself like that… to face death each day not knowing_ if _…" Her voice trailed off as she disappeared, and the two witnesses sagged, able to move again._

_"She's really starting to get on my damn nerves," Abbie said, hiding how much she was rattled by Pandora's words under false bravado in the futile hopes that Crane wouldn't notice._

_"Indeed," he agreed, his voice playing along even if his eyes weren't._

Crane gazes at his Lieutenant, illuminated in the soft glow of the porch light. They haven't discussed Pandora's words. They have hardly spoken at all since then.

The weight of Abbie's thoughts was quite visible on her shoulders, and his own have settled in the pit of his stomach much in the same way that calzone he tried last month did.

He stands and walks to the front door, grabbing the fleece throw from the back of the couch as he goes.

Abbie doesn't seem surprised to see him, but doesn't say anything.

He drapes the blanket over her shoulders and she murmurs a word of thanks as he sits.

"Pan—"

"I don't want to talk about her," she says.

"I know," he replies. "But I feel it like an… unspoken wall between us. It is most displeasing."

Her shoulders slump a bit. "Elephant in the room," she mutters.

"Beg pardon?"

"It's an elephant in the room," she explains with a light sigh. "Like… say you're at a party, and there's this elephant. It's just there, and everyone _knows_ it's there, but no one wants to bring it up or ask about _why_ it's there. It's getting more and more in the way, and after a while, it becomes the _only_ thing anyone can think about."

Crane had started nodding about a third of the way into her explanation. "I see. A metaphor. Quite clever." He looks directly at her. "So does this mean you _are_ willing to discuss it?"

"Yeah," she sighs, gathering the blanket tighter around her, like a protective barrier against more than the cold. "We agreed we wouldn't keep things from each other. Plus… yeah, we need to talk about it."

"She means to manipulate us with her words," he says, launching straight in. "Every time she has spoken to us, it has been to poison, to sow seeds of doubt. Unrest. Get under our very skin. We cannot allow it."

"No, we can't," she agrees. _It would be easier if she wasn't so damn on point with everything._ "She's good though," she allows.

"She seems to know things about our inner thoughts… our pasts, our fears, our… desires…" he cautiously says. "And yet…"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What are you saying, Crane?"

"Tonight she seemed more… _hypothetical_ than usual, did she not? As if she wasn't entirely sure, like she was testing us. To see how we'd react."

"Did we pass the test?"

"I have no idea."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the night around them.

"We could put it to our own test," he quietly suggests.

"What?" she asks, surprised.

"Well, perhaps we should… do something… to see if her theory is correct," he explains.

 _Do something?_ "Wouldn't that play into her hands?" she asks.

"I do not see how. We will have our answer, and that will put the control back into _our_ hands," he theorizes.

She ponders this a moment. "What do you mean by 'do something'?"

He cocks his head to the side a moment, at least pretending to mull it over. In truth, he knows exactly what to request. "A kiss. A simple kiss, and we shall have our answer," he declares. "For scientific reasons, of course."

"You think that's all it will take?" she asks. A sly smile slowly spreads across her face. "I mean I know you've got _game_ , but do you really think—"

"You wound me, Miss Mills!" he declares, cutting off her teasing by feigning offense.

She laughs, then sighs, glad for the small break in the awkwardness.

It is a _very_ small break.

He clears his throat, then moves over to sit beside her on the porch swing. She stares up at him with her large, brown eyes that he knows can see straight into his soul.

"Um…" he mumbles, suddenly shy. He knows she is waiting for him to make a move. _This was your idea, Ichabod. Just one kiss._ He places his hand on her shoulder, then moves it to her cheek, gently cupping it and tilting her face up to his. He looks into her eyes, then drops his gaze to her lips for just a moment. Then he leans in and softly kisses her.

 _Exquisite_ is not a strong enough word. Her lips are lush and warm, and he can currently think of only a few things better than staying right here, worshipping her lips for the rest of his days.

Abbie is similarly enraptured as the touch of his lips burns through her to her core. His kiss makes her feel weak and empowered at the same time; she is glad she is sitting and yet feels like she can conquer the world.

Ichabod starts to pull away, but some unseen force draws him back, compelling him forward again, parting his lips now to tease his way into her mouth with his tongue.

She immediately responds, dropping the blanket to grip his shirt in her hands. He is sweet, tasting of honey and mint and something unnamable, something wholly his own that she will never forget.

He groans low in the back of his throat, his hand sliding back through her hair to support the back of her head, his other arm curling around her back. She is delicious, finer than any confection or delicacy he has ever tasted, and he cannot get enough.

A police siren two streets down breaks into their consciousness, and they slowly part.

Her eyes are glazed. His pupils are blown so wide there is almost no blue left. Their breathing is shallow, their hearts racing.

Abbie composes herself first, releasing her grip on his shirt. "I guess we have our answer," she says, willing her voice to be calm. Even detached.

"Indeed," he agrees, folding his hands in his lap lest their twitching betray him. He needs to leave before he kisses her again, so he stands and bows. "I will bid you a fond 'good-night' then, Lieutenant," he says. He pauses by the door. "Do not stay out here too long. It would not do for you to catch a chill."

"I won't. Thanks," she answers, giving him a smile.

He disappears inside. When the door closes, Abbie raises her fingers to her still-tingling lips and closes her eyes. She finds herself wishing she had an eidetic memory like Crane, but somehow she knows she will _always_ remember that kiss.

Crane leans against the wall just inside the door, his eyes closed. He places his hand on his forehead, then over his heart, willing his inner turmoil to still. He's not sure what happened out there, but he knows that he _never_ felt like that when he had kissed any other woman.

_I do indeed have my answer._


	29. Massage

"Crane, I'm fine," Abbie protests, shrugging away from him and immediately wincing. "Ow."

"That does not sound like 'fine', Lieutenant. Please, allow me to assist you," Crane presses, draping his coat over the back of a chair before following her.

"I just need a hot shower. Maybe a bath…" she counters, trying ineffectively to evade him.

"Miss Mills, why must you be so stubborn? I promise you I know what I am doing. I have studied—"

"Of course you have," she mutters, but it's loud enough to stop his words. Her lower back is killing her, but she doesn't want him touching her.

Not because she thinks he'll hurt her, but because she's not sure how _she'll_ react to having those hands of his all over her.

 _Okay, not quite_ all _, but definitely touching more than normal._

She's been living in denial for a few months now, and it's getting harder to stay there with each passing day.

"Please, Abbie. It pains me to see _you_ in pain." His request is earnest and plaintive, and she relents.

"Fine," she sighs. "Come on." She hobbles to her bedroom, expecting him to follow.

Crane hesitates a moment, leery of following her into her room. He's been in there a handful of times, but never under such… _intimate_ circumstances. He briefly wonders if his brain was addled by the creature they encountered tonight, clouding his judgment. He forces his feet to move before she starts wondering what is keeping him. _Why did you insist she let you give her a massage?_ His hands twitch, thumbs rubbing across his fingertips in anticipation.

By the time he reaches her room, she is face down on her bed, waiting. He pauses in the doorway. _This is a bad idea. One touch and you will not be able to stop; you know this._ He quietly clears his throat and steps inside. "Um, have you any… oil?" he asks, feeling tremendously awkward.

 _Oh, God._ Abbie does, but it's some cheap, vaguely strawberry-scented garbage from a porn store she got as a favor at a bachelorette party three years ago. _It's probably gone rancid anyway. Why do I still even have it?_ "Nothing that would work for what you need," she says, thinking of the various cooking oils in her pantry. She is not going to come out of this smelling like a salad. "Try that bottle of lotion," she says, waving her hand in the general direction of her dresser.

"Ah," he says, striding across and grabbing the bottle. He flips the top open and smells it. _It smells like she does._ Smiling, he crosses back and gingerly sits on the edge of her bed. "Um, I need to…"

She feels his hands fluttering at the hem of her blouse. "Oh yeah… right," she says, trying to lift up the back. "That's not going to work," she declares, carefully sits up, and begins unbuttoning her blouse.

"Oh." Crane turns his head, respectfully facing away. He's seen her in a bra before, years ago, but it's different now. They're not preparing to get bitten by scorpions and enter a dreamscape. They're in her bedroom. And he's not married anymore.

"Okay." The word is almost a whisper, but it reaches his ears.

He looks back at her, noting her bra is burgundy this time. _To match her blouse,_ he idly thinks, squirting a measure of lotion onto his palm. "All right," he says. "Alllll right… oookaayyyy…"

Abbie hears him hesitating behind her, and her eyes snap open, suddenly wondering if he is uneasy for the same reason as she. _No. Couldn't be. And yet…_

Crane rubs his hands together, warming the lotion between his palms, takes a deep breath, steels himself, then places his hands on her back. _Dear God._ Even through the slippery lotion he can tell her skin is incredibly soft.

"Ohhh…" The moan escapes involuntarily, and she wishes she could swallow it back in. Especially because his hands falter on hearing it.

His large, strong fingers find every knot and sore spot, working the cramped, aching muscles in her lower back until they yield under his touch. Up and down, back and forth.

"Oh, dear," he murmurs, frowning as his fingers encounter the waist of her jeans. The line of knots continues beneath the fabric.

"What?" she asks. But she knows. She knows where his hands are.

"My progress is… impeded. I can stop here, of course, but I fear you will still be in pain if I do," he says.

 _Well, in for a penny._ Abbie lifts her hips, reaches in front of her, and opens her jeans. She slides them down as low as she dares.

Crane inhales sharply, the edge of her panties just peeking out from beneath her lowered jeans. He's seen them doing laundry, but he always tried not to look. Not for too long, anyway.

And this is the first time he's seen them while she is in them. _They, too, are burgundy._ He starts again, following the muscles down with his thumbs, being very careful to not touch her underwear.

He allows his eyes to rove her form, knowing she cannot see him. He feels a bit guilty staring like this, but it's too late now. _Ye gods, even her back is lovely._ The beautiful taper from shoulders to waist, the swell of her hips and beautifully rounded backside, the firm yet yielding muscles beneath an expanse of flawless skin.

"Breathtaking." He whispers the word low, nearly inaudible, but still he watches her, hoping she hasn't heard.

And hoping she has.

"Did you say something?" she asks. Her voice is muffled slightly, and she sounds drowsy, but content.

"How does your back feel, Miss Mills?" he asks, running his hands up and down from her bra strap to her waistband. His hands are so big and her back so small that the motion isn't very large.

"Getting better, thank you," she answers.

He keeps working, his fingers seeking out every knot and sore spot on her back. "Abbie," he starts, not exactly knowing what he is going to say, but needing to say _something._

"Crane?" she replies, wondering what is so important that he's using her first name. "Something wrong?"

"No," he answers. "Yes. No. I…" He pauses, at a loss for words. He moves his hands up, lifting his hands over her bra strap to her shoulders. They are just that much farther away that he needs to lean over her a bit to reach. _What are you doing, Ichabod?_ His fingers hesitate for a second, but he knows he has reached the point of no return.

"My shoulders are good…" Her words die out when she feels his lips on her shoulder.

"Indeed," he agrees, kissing again, having decided that actions speak much louder than words, especially when words are not cooperating. He continues to trail soft, warm kisses across her shoulders, waiting for her to tell him to stop.

She doesn't. She sighs, melting further into the bed. He nudges her hair aside, thankful for the shorter style, and moves his lips to her neck. He lifts his head just enough to see that her eyes are closed and she has a slight smile on her face, half-obscured by the pillow.

He kisses her just beneath her ear, and she hums. He kisses her jaw and she turns, first onto her side, then her back, guiding his lips to hers.

Crane collapses beside her, careful not to land _on_ her, his motion breaking the kiss for just a second.

"What is this?" Abbie asks, pulling back just enough to speak.

"Am I not doing it correctly?" he innocently responds, but the mirth in his eyes gives him away.

She smiles. "I mean where did this come from?" she amends, waiting for him to correct her grammar.

He doesn't. He takes her hand in his and presses it to his chest, over his heart. "Here," he simply answers. "It comes from here, Abbie. You have been its owner for some time now."

She blinks a few times, trying not to let his words overwhelm her. Trying not to get overwhelmed by her _own_ feelings. She moves their hands, placing his over her heart, then returning her hand to his chest. "Then have mine in exchange," she whispers, her fingers caressing his chest. She can feel the rapid beating of his heart and knows hers matches it.

He leans forward, brushing her lips with his. "I shall treat it with the utmost care," he murmurs before capturing her lips once more.


	30. Found a Puppy

"What is that?" Abbie asks, angling her head to see what Crane has quickly hidden behind his back.

"Um, if you would give me but a moment of your time, Lieut—"

" _Crane_ ," she cuts him off, hearing a telltale whine. She closes her eyes. "Tell me that's not a dog."

"It's not a dog," he obediently says. Technically, it's not a lie.

Abbie opens her eyes. "Let me see it."

Crane sheepishly brings his hand out from behind his back. There is a small, wiggling lump of black fur held aloft on his palm.

"That is a dog," she says, trying not to look at its wagging tail, shiny black nose, and tiny teeth gnawing at her partner's thumb.

"A puppy," he clarifies. "I found her outside, huddled beside her mother, who was… she…" his voice breaks slightly and she is surprised to see tears welling in his eyes.

"The mother was dead?" Abbie quietly asks, stepping closer.

"She appeared to have been struck by a car," he quietly says, then lifts the pup to his face and kisses her on the head before affectionately rubbing her fur.

"Oh, Crane, I'm sorry," she replies, melting a little. She likes dogs, but isn't sure about how smart it is to adopt a dog considering the lives they lead.

"I wrapped up the mother and brought her to a nearby veterinary hospital. They checked little Liberty over and said she is in fine health," he says. He lifts her up and speaks to the dog. "We even had a few shots, didn't we?"

Abbie chuckles despite herself. "Liberty? You've already named her, huh?" _Next he'll want to get her a red, white and blue collar._

Crane looks over at her, his face imploring as he asks, "Please?"

She lets him dangle for a few moments, then sighs. "Okay." Then, almost as an afterthought, she asks, "She's not going to get too big, is she?"

xXx

She _did_ get big. Nearly reaching Abbie's waist, Liberty slowly becomes a part of Team Witness, winning over Jenny and Joe immediately. She loves Crane best, but listens to Abbie better than anyone else.

"She knows you are the alpha," Jenny had declared one day after Crane unsuccessfully tried to convince his dog to move from atop his fallen coat. Abbie had wandered in, said, "Hey Lib, move it," with a wave of her hand, and the large dog relented, standing and walking towards her.

Abbie was never openly warm towards Liberty, but deep down, she liked the dog's solid, loyal presence.

They never brought her along to any battles. Jenny tried to lobby for it, citing her sensitive nose and powerful jaws. Crane always said no.

Then one day, the battle comes to them. To the cabin. They are there looking through some boxes Joe found under the floorboards, and Liberty's head suddenly snaps up from where she was sleeping in the corner (on Crane's coat). She lets out a small whine and appears to be on high alert.

She goes to the door, nosing at the crack and pawing at the wood.

"I'll let her out," Abbie, the only one standing, says. She walks over, opens the door, and Liberty immediately pounces, bounding outside in one powerful, arcing leap, and straight onto some sort of demon or imp with shiny, blood-red skin.

Abbie lets out a surprised yelp and Crane, Jenny, and Joe are there in a flash, weapons drawn as they step onto the porch.

Jenny and Joe scan for more demons while Abbie and Crane watch, wide-eyed, as their dog dispatches the creature.

Joe shoots and hits another beast on the shoulder, wounding it but not slowing it down. Liberty leaps again, and the demon meets the same fate as its companion.

Abbie finds her feet and dashes down the steps to investigate, gun in hand.

"Lieutenant!" Crane's shout comes just as Liberty snarls, jumps, and takes down the third demon right before it reaches Abbie.

The entire scene takes less than a minute.

Only when Liberty pads over to Abbie's side and nudges her hand, tail wagging, do the others relax. Abbie absently pets the dog's head.

"Good girl," she says.

"Whoa," Joe comments, looking around. A moment later, the three demons vaporize, leaving behind nothing but a faint sulfuric odor.

"I told you we should bring her with us to battles," Jenny says, reaching down to scratch Liberty behind her ears. "I knew you were this awesome," she tells the dog.

"Miss Jenny, I apologize for my overprotectiveness," Crane says, touching Abbie on the shoulder. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?" he quietly asks.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm fine," she answers, smiling up at him. Then she looks down at the dog. "I guess she really wanted to get on my good side."

Crane bends down on one knee, rubs Liberty's ears, and says, "Good girl. _Very_ good girl." He recoils when she tries to lick his face, as her muzzle is still coated with demon goo. "A very good girl who very much needs a bath."

"That's all you, Crane," Abbie says, holding her hands up. Part of the agreement was that any big-time maintenance or care is Ichabod's responsibility. Plus the dog hates baths.

He stands. "If it means having you safe and sound at my side, I will happily bathe this uncooperative beast whenever the occasion calls for it."


	31. Mistletoe

Ichabod looks up at the leafy green sprig hanging just above him. He hadn't noticed it until he felt something brush the top of his head. "Miss Mills," he says, stepping out from directly under the mistletoe. A few loose strands of hair catch and stick up from the top of his head. "Do you remember the first time we found ourselves standing thus?" he asks, pointedly looking upwards.

Abbie follows his gaze. He sees something unnamable flash across her face before she carefully schools her features. "Yeah. It was at the museum. Henry's golem was out doing his golem thing," she answers, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach.

He nods and steps closer, crowding her against the edge of the doorway. Blocking her from fleeing. "I seem to recall you made a dismissive comment and strode away," he says in a low voice, "un-kissed."

"There's no law," she replies, trying for snarky but achieving sultry, her voice betraying her. "And you were married…" she weakly adds.

His head tilts to the side in acknowledgment, but he moves closer still. Her hands reflexively come up to land on his chest, but she's not sure if she intends to push him away or grab his lapels to keep herself from falling. The floor suddenly seems less stable than usual.

"In any case, I have no intention of letting you escape so easily this time," he rumbles.

Before she can say anything, his lips are on hers, soft and warm. He kisses her with his mouth closed, yet there is nothing that could be considered innocent or chaste about it.

Abbie squeaks in surprise, then relaxes into the kiss, her hands sliding up to hang onto his shoulders. Crane's hands find her waist, moving around to pull her closer.

She angles her head just slightly and draws his lower lip into her mouth, lightly sucking on it until he groans and reluctantly lifts his head.

"Happy Christmas, Abbie," he says in a husky whisper that she feels resonating throughout her body.

"Merry Christmas, Ichabod," she answers, gazing up at him with new eyes.


End file.
